


To the Upper Air

by DreamingPagan



Series: Elysium [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: And Admiral Hennessey is Too Old for This, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Gen, In Which James Flint Attempts to Be James McGraw Again, In Which John Silver is a Fuck-Up but He's Sorry, In Which Miranda Tries to Find the Patience To Not Burn the World, In Which Silver is Not Sure Why He Keeps Signing Up for This, In Which There Are Politics, In Which Thomas is Confused, James Flint gets hugged good and proper 2k17, M/M, Miranda Barlow Appreciation, Miranda Lives AU, Time Travel Fix-It, disclaimer: author's views have changed since writing this, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-08-19 09:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 78,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8200756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: James Flint goes to sleep expecting a battle the next day. What he's not expecting is to wake, eleven years in his own past, with a very different fight on his hands - to save the people he loves and his own soul.





	1. Through the Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shirogiku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/gifts), [mapped](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/gifts).



> There is now art for this fic! My darling, well-beloved @weillschmidtdoodles/@thomas-hamilton has done beautiful, wonderful art with scenes from Chapters 1, 2, 3, and 6 here: 
> 
> http://weillschmidtdoodles.tumblr.com/post/160300011818/jamesthomas-appreciation-week-day-04-day-four. 
> 
> Go check out their work!

_“…the descent to the Underworld is easy. / night and day the gates of shadowy Death stand open wide, / but to retrace your steps, to climb back to the upper air— / there the struggle, there the labor lies….”_  
—  
Virgil, the Aeneid, 6.149-52, Translated by Robert Fagles

He woke to find himself in an unfamiliar room.

The lack of his ordinary aches and pains should have been his first clue, James realized in retrospect. It was not that he did not appreciate the lack - no, of course not. It was simply that he had grown used to waking up to find himself in at least some small amount of discomfort, whether from an injury or simply from the wear and tear on his body incurred by not treating it as gently as he perhaps should have. He had not truly realized, for example, exactly how much his left shoulder still ached from the bullet wound until it no longer did, or how much better his back had felt when he was still occupying a real bed with a real mattress, however old, on a regular basis. Now, though, he found himself muttering imprecations only to find that there was actually nothing to curse - no cramps, no overwhelming desire to roll over and go back to sleep. He was well-rested. He was comfortable, and lying on sheets that smelled better than anything he’d had the privilege of laying on since he’d last slept in Miranda’s house. He was also wearing a nightshirt, and in a room that he did not recognize (or did he? It was familiar and yet -) 

The knock on the door interrupted his attempt to remember where the hell he was, and he sat up in the bed.

“Yes?” His voice sounded odd - less hoarse, somehow, as if he had not used it to shout orders at anyone in quite some time, and yet he did not remember any such welcome time away from the ship. Had he been drinking? If so, what, and for how long? He shook his head, trying to clear it.

“Lieutenant McGraw? Message for you, sir.” 

He froze. 

“ _What?_ ” The word came out as a choked whisper, the shock of hearing his name and former rank in use driving all other thought from his head, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. He could feel anger start to unfurl itself within him, accompanied by a sense of betrayal. This was Silver’s doing - it had to be, he was the only one in the world that had that name, that knew James’ history. He had shared it with someone - had sent someone looking for Lieutenant McGraw with a message instead of Captain Flint, he had to have, but why in the fuck -? Where the hell was he?

He stood up swiftly, and stalked his way over to the door, nearly wrenching it off its hinges in the process of opening it. He found a nervous-looking messenger on the other side of the door.

“Who the fuck are you and who gave you that name?” he snarled. The question was academic, but he wanted to hear it, to confirm for himself. The boy’s eyes widened.

“S-Sir?” he squeaked.

“I said who the fuck sent you?” James repeated, and the boy took a step back.

“Lord - Lord Hamilton, sir. He said to -” 

James did not think - he reached forward, grasping the front of the boy’s coat and pulling him forward. When he found Silver, he was going to fucking kill him.

“Tell me who the fuck sent you right now or by God I swear I’ll -” 

“Lieutenant? Is everything alright?” 

The woman’s voice, familiar and absolutely fucking _impossible_ stopped him in his tracks, and he looked down the hallway, head suddenly snapping toward the source of the noise. There, standing at the end of the corridor, looking shocked and appalled, was the landlady of his former lodging house, Mrs. Pritchard, complete with her neatly-kept bun and familiar blue and white-striped dress. She stood, staring, shocked, and he released the boy almost out of instinct.

“Lieutenant, what on Earth is going on here?” she demanded, hands moving to her hips, and he floundered. 

“He’s bloody loony, that’s what!” the boy yelped. “I come here with a message for him from Lord Hamilton, and he just about tore me to pieces!”

James did not hear the landlady’s reply. There was a roaring noise in his ears, and he stumbled backward, his hands reaching out to catch himself against the doorframe. This could not be happening. He could not possibly be in London, and Mrs. Pritchard could not possibly have failed to age a day since last he had seen her. He could not be - this wasn’t -

“Lieutenant? Lieutenant?” 

Someone was standing in front of him, calling out a rank that no longer belonged to him. He blinked, and found Mrs. Pritchard still standing there, her hands still on her hips, her lips now pursed in a worried frown. 

“Mr. McGraw - are you well?” He looked up.

“I’m fine,” he rasped.

“You certainly don’t look it. You’re as pale as if you’d seen a ghost!” 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he repeated, and she shook her head. 

“If you’ll pardon me for saying so, Lieutenant, well men don’t frighten messenger boys half to death by shaking them like a rat terrier with a prize.” 

“If you know the answer then why the fuck would you ask the question?” he asked, and she drew back.

“You,” she said, “are not well. Not at all. And if you continue in this fashion, I’ll have no choice but to call a doctor.” 

He did not answer, simply looked at her, still half-uncomprehending. This was still fucking impossible - this whole conversation, let alone the exchange with the boy, who seemed to have buggered off. This had to be a dream - or -

“What year is it?” he rasped, and the landlady blanched.

“God help us, it’s worse than I thought,” she murmured. “It’s the year of the good Lord seventeen-hundred and five, sir. Do you know where you are?” 

“ _Jesus_ ,” he all but groaned, face turning white. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ -”

Mrs. Pritchard hurriedly crossed herself, backing away. 

“I’m calling the doctor. I’ll not have -”

He held up a hand.

“No!” he barked. “No. I’m -” He was not alright - good fucking _Christ_ , he was not alright, but he was suddenly also acutely aware that he could not allow her to see that. If this was truly London in the year 1705 -

“I - apologize,” he managed. The words sounded odd - stilted, and he swallowed hard, trying to think of something to say that would sound as if he hadn’t suddenly taken leave of his senses. “I was in the tavern last night,” he finally offered. “My head -” It wasn’t much of an act - there was a dull, pounding pain starting in his temples. “I seem to have misplaced most of the night,” he offered, and Mrs. Pritchard frowned, comprehension flashing across her dark face. 

“It must have been quite the night, Lieutenant,” she said, and he forced himself to smile, forced himself to play the hungover fool. Something was very wrong here, and he couldn’t possibly find out what if someone carted him off to Bedlam.

Bedlam. The name knocked the breath out of him for the space of a second, and he felt his heart stutter. _Thomas_. If this was 1705 - He stopped the thought in its tracks, refusing to focus on it just now. Not yet - not here, not now, despite the traitorous, treacherous hope, the first in eleven years, that was setting his very nerves on fire. Not now. Not yet.

“I’ve never known you for a drinking man,” she continued, one eyebrow raised, and he cursed inwardly at her persistence.

He had been charming, once, he recalled, or at least so he had been told - skilled enough at conversation not to appear boorish, at any rate. He had lost the inclination over the intervening years, but not the ability, and he pasted a worryingly unfamiliar smile on his face, turning it on Mrs. Pritchard.

“You can see why.” 

He didn’t feel an ounce of the humor he was trying for, but it seemed to work on the landlady, because one corner of her mouth turned up in the beginnings of a smile. 

“Yes. I can. You’d better go and get dressed.”

He looked down. Ah. Yes. He _was_ standing in the corridor in nothing but a nightshirt, wasn’t he? That was odd, for London, although he’d known men aboard ships to walk around in a lot less, and wouldn’t _that_ be shocking for poor Mrs. Pritchard?

“You’re certain that you’re alright?” she asked, and he nodded, trying to paste a contrite expression on his face.

“Yes. It won’t happen again.” 

Mrs. Pritchard clicked her tongue, shaking her head as if in amusement at what she no doubt thought to be the antics of a young man away from his ship. 

“I should hope not!” 

With that, she turned, walking away finally, and James allowed himself to fall backwards, leaning on the open door, shaking as if he had the palsy. _Christ Almighty_ , what the _fuck_ was going on? The thought traveled through his head over and over again, and at last he dragged a hand over his face, starting at his eyes and ending at -

His very bare chin. The shaking increased, and, as if in a daze, he stumbled back into the room, barely feeling the cold floor against his feet, his hand fumbling the door closed behind him, and he moved to his sea chest - the one that he remembered had always resided at the foot of whatever bed he was renting, and sure enough, there it was, initials and all. He wrenched it open, not sparing so much as a thought for the aging hinges, and dug until he found his shaving mirror.

He released it again a moment later, only just catching it before it hit the floor and shattered. He shut his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to stop shaking, and held up the mirror again. He lowered it again slowly when he had looked his fill, suddenly breathing hard, eyes closed tightly, hand clenched around the mirror almost convulsively. He swallowed hard, and opened his eyes again, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. His knees, once so steady on the deck of a ship, wobbled beneath him, and he sat down on the floor abruptly, his stomach suddenly rebelling, tying itself in knots inside him. 

This was 1705. His own reflection confirmed it, from the long hair to the only slightly stubble-covered jaw to the complete and utter lack of the creases in his face that he had come to know so well. The scar on his cheek from Singleton’s blade was gone as well, confirming once and for all that this was not, could not be, an elaborate prank. He was, without any kind of explanation at all, thirty-two years old again, and, from all evidence, still an officer in her Majesty’s Navy. Not a pirate. Not the monster Flint. Just James again, as if the past eleven years had never happened, the slate wiped clean, the various horrors that had turned him into Captain Flint never having occurred except in James’ whirling, stumbling, confused mind. 

It was over.

The thought took all others from his head, and he sat for several moments, still shaking. He was crying, he realized after some time - tears streaming down his face unheeded. He was weeping, and for once, he did not care - did not even attempt to rein in the sobs that wracked his frame, or the laughter that followed, born of mixed relief and a feeling bubbling up in his chest that he could only name joy, little experience though he had had of that particular emotion in what seemed like an eternity. It was _over_. He ran a hand over his face again, confirming to himself once again that he was no longer gazing out at the world from behind the grim mask of Captain Flint, and then allowed the hand to drop into his lap, allowed the other to rest flat against the floor to hold him up, and sobbed into his knees like a child. The fighting and the dying and the lies - it was all done. He was home, if ever he could be said to have had one, through some miracle or sorcery and Thomas and Miranda - 

_Thomas and Miranda were alive._

The thought slammed into him, undeniable and wonderful and utterly, completely terrifying. They were alive - not dead, not murdered, but _alive_. He could see Thomas again - hear his voice, kiss him until neither of them had any breath left the way he should have done so many more times than he had when he had still truly been the buttoned-up, self-conscious man that belonged in this body. He could go to Miranda and run his hands through her hair, listen to her laugh the way she used to when Thomas was still with them. They were alive - 

And James had no idea how to go about saving them. That he had to was obvious, as simple and self-evident as - 

As what, exactly? If he could wake up one morning James Flint, captain of the Walrus and terror of the West Indies and the next a decade in his own past, what else was not as certain as he had once assumed it to be? Was he next going to open his eyes to find himself still a midshipman under Hennessey’s tutelage? What if -

No. He shut the thought down ruthlessly, mentally grinding it into the dirt with one foot. That did not bear thinking about. If he was truly here, truly eleven years in the past, then he had a duty to Thomas and Miranda. He had been granted a chance, and he was damned if he was going to waste it chasing what-ifs. Whatever else happened, Thomas was not going to be locked in Bethlem and driven to suicide. Miranda was not going to die in front of him - not this time, no matter what it took. He stood, hands still shaking, and took a deep breath. He needed to get hold of himself. He needed to get dressed and - 

“James?” The voice at the door startled him, and he whirled around, his eyes widening. That was Thomas’ voice - he would have known it anywhere, even now, eleven years and one trip through time later. The sound of it washed over him and he felt something in his stomach do a flip, his heart feeling suddenly as if someone had taken hold of it and squeezed as hard as they could. Thomas was on the other side of that door and James -

James wasn’t here. Not the James that Thomas expected - the James he had fallen in love with all those years ago. That James had gone to sleep the night before never to wake again, and in his place was the man who sat, staring at the door, his heart suddenly pounding at the realization that he would have to face Thomas again rather sooner than he had expected and unsure whether he could actually manage it.

“James? Are you in there?” Thomas rapped on the door again, the sound echoing through the room. “My messenger seems to think you’ve taken leave of your senses. Are you alright?” 

For one brief, horrible moment, he contemplated not answering. If he pushed Thomas away - if he broke off their affair - Alfred would have nothing to use against them. He and Miranda would be safe. There would be no exile. No Bedlam. 

And no point in continuing on - no air to breath, because Thomas would be gone as surely as if he were dead, leaving James to live without him again - to flounder and fall to his demons once again, and what the fuck was the point of being given a second chance if he was to be forced to do that to himself again? He would be miserable. Miranda would be beyond angry, and Alfred would still be a threat. If not now, then later - tomorrow, or the next day, or the next year, and James would no longer be present to fend him off. And Thomas - 

He would be heartbroken. The very idea of it made James’ stomach clench, and he banished the idea firmly. No. He could not do it. Thomas deserved better. Miranda deserved better. He - 

He did not deserve better, not after all he had done, but that did not matter in the slightest when compared with the golden, shining opportunity that lay beyond the door. 

“I’m fine - give me a moment!” he called, and Thomas gave a sigh of relief.

“Well thank God for that,” he answered, the relief in his voice plain. “I was afraid I’d come and find you chewing the furniture!” 

Thomas’ voice went straight through him, and he swallowed, closing his eyes. This was happening. Thomas was really here - 

And he was still not dressed. The knowledge spurred him into movement, his hands reaching for the clothes that lay, neatly folded, on the chair near the bed. He needed breeches, at least, and preferably a shirt if he did not want to repeat his second meeting with Miranda. 

“You gave the poor boy quite a fright,” Thomas continued. “What on Earth is the matter with everyone this morning?”

“Everyone?” James stopped momentarily, his shirt still only halfway on.

“Yes! First Miranda, now you - I feel as if I’ve woken up to find everyone gone mad!”

James flinched, his hands pulling the rest of his clothing on mechanically. Gone mad, Thomas had said. It was not far from the truth, not really, and he once more questioned whether or not he could really do this. So much lay between him and the man he had been, and Thomas knew none of it. 

Could he truly go through with this?

No. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. No. He could not subject Thomas to the person he had become. He could not show Thomas that man - could not allow Captain Flint to have anything to do with either Thomas or Miranda, and they would see. They had to, because he was not James McGraw - had not been in so very long. They would know. They would hate the man he had become, and he could not bear the thought of their frightened, disappointed faces. He had to open the door and do his damndest to push Thomas away from this - away from him. The knowledge burned, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to retreat - to lock the door and wait for Thomas to go away. He could not do this - either push him away or pretend. He could feel panic building in his chest - felt his breath quicken, his palms begin to sweat, and he backed away from the door, swallowing hard against the onslaught of tears that threatened at the corners of his eyes. He could not do this. He had to -

“James - you know if something’s wrong you can tell me, don’t you?” Thomas’ voice, laced with gentle concern, broke through the haze of pain, and tripped the panic in its tracks. “I want to help. Please, open the door?” 

Thomas always had known him entirely too well, he realized distantly. He had always known when James was faltering - when he doubted himself, and he had never, ever been willing to accept defeat when it came to James’ demons. If James attempted to withdraw now, he would only be followed, and Thomas would see everything anyway. He swallowed. He could not pretend, and he could not push Thomas away. That left one other option, and the idea of it frightened him more than anything else had that morning. If he could not _pretend_ to be James McGraw, and he could not be Captain Flint - 

He had once been a very different man - one that didn’t turn to slaughter as his first option. One that Thomas could love. He had never thought to be given a chance to be that man again, but maybe - 

His hands were drenched in blood, but perhaps - just perhaps - blood could wash off, if he scrubbed hard enough.

He took a deep breath, ran a shaking hand over his hair, and laughed, short and sharp. It was odd, he thought. Somehow he had never imagined that Captain Flint would die like this - quietly, in a room in a lodging house, without the slightest trace of protest. He had imagined going out with a bang, and yet here he stood, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, as he silently acknowledged what he was about to do. Captain Flint and his violence, his scheming, and his anger could have nothing to do with Thomas, but James McGraw - 

James McGraw was more than ready to come home. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then opened them again, breathing out as he did so. With hands that were suddenly steadier and feet that were suddenly much more committed to their course, he moved forward again, his hand reaching for the door even as the other wiped away the traces of tears from his eyes. He stopped for a split second, bracing himself, and then opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Everyone! I had previously posted parts 1 through 4 of this on Tumblr at flintsredhair.tumblr.com. Now that I know where this fic is headed, I felt it was safe enough to post here as well. Hope everyone's enjoying it! As usual, comments are loved and appreciated - the more the merrier!


	2. Through the Looking Glass II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are <3!

The world ground to a halt.

“I -” he started, and then stopped, his lungs abruptly and recalcitrantly refusing to function.

Thomas stood, one arm holding him up against the doorframe, and he straightened as James opened the door, flashing him a grin.

“There you are!” he said. “I was beginning to worry you’d gone back to bed!” 

James stood still, his hand still on the door latch, attempting to get his breath back. He’d forgotten the exact shade of Thomas’ eyes, he realized - blue-grey in this light, the mirth in them tinged with worry. His blond hair, too, James had painted in his mind as subtly different in shade, and James found himself staring at it, attempting to memorize the color anew, along with the shape of Thomas’ face and the length of his fingers and a hundred other seemingly inconsequential details that made up the man that James had spent the past eleven years grieving. He was here. He was really, truly alive, and James was speechless at the sight of him.

“James?” Thomas asked again, his brow creased by a frown. “What’s the matter? You look a little - well, you look bloody awful, actually.” 

James closed his mouth, suddenly aware that he was staring.

“Thomas,” he croaked, and Thomas sighed.

“That’s exactly what Miranda said,” he answered. “I’d barely finished asking her why she was looking at me like I was a ghost when my messenger returned and told me you’d gone mad and accosted him. And now you’re looking at me the same way! What on Earth is the matter?” 

James shook his head. 

“Nothing,” he answered, almost choking on the word. Nothing was wrong - nothing could possibly be wrong when Thomas was here and alive and Miranda was waiting for them and James himself was here, returned somehow to this time to live his life over again, free to be the person he thought he had buried the day Miranda died.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. 

“Truly?” he asked. “Nothing that’s turned you as white as a sheet and caused Miranda to all but faint at the sight of me? James -” He reached forward, his hand coming up to wrap around the back of James’ neck, and James could not quite stop himself from inhaling sharply at the contact - the feeling of Thomas touching him for the first time in over a decade. 

“That is not nothing,” Thomas said decisively. “James, for God’s sake - you can tell me, whatever it is, you know that.” 

James stared helplessly. He had opened the door intending to tell Thomas everything - to explain and beg his forgiveness on bended knee, but at this exact moment, he could not go another second without touching Thomas - could not pretend for one more moment that it had not been a decade and longer since he had last laid eyes on Thomas’ face, that he was not absolutely, desperately glad to see him, or that he did not have the urgent desire to kiss him senseless.

“Thomas -” he started, and then took a deep breath and, without further ado, he reached out and drew Thomas into the room behind him, his hands reaching for his lover almost of their own volition, his lips crashing into Thomas’ lips even as the door closed behind them, kissing him as if he might just possibly disappear if James let go. Thomas let out a noise - surprise, James realized, his hands clutching at James’ shoulders, and he returned the kiss, shock changing to desire. He moved one hand upward to touch James’ jaw, and James let out a muffled gasp at the sensation, unused to the feeling of anything touching the sensitive skin there after so long. He ran his fingers through Thomas’ hair in response, fingers carding through the soft yellow locks, knocking his hat to the ground, and he smiled through tears, unable to hold in his joy at being able to touch and smell and taste Thomas again. When he pulled back finally, they were both panting. Thomas’ lips curved upward in a smile, and he gave a small huff of laughter.

“James - God’s bones, I know it’s been a week, but -” he started, and James shook his head.

“It’s been a lot longer than that,” he answered, voice still ragged with emotion.

Thomas grinned wider. 

“I know,” he said. “It felt as if -” 

James shook his head again.

“No,” he said roughly. “I mean - for me, it’s been -” 

Thomas frowned. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I - ” James started, and then stopped. He was going to sound utterly insane. There was simply no way of explaining this - not without sounding as if he had been knocked on the head rather too hard, and he found himself suddenly wishing for Miranda. She would know what to say - how to explain what was happening, or at least how to calm him such that he could think his own way through it. Speaking of whom - 

His hands tightened on Thomas’ shoulders, and he took a deep breath. 

“You said Miranda was acting oddly this morning,” he said. Was it possible -?

“Yes,” Thomas said. “You both are.”

“How odd?” he asked, and Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“Very,” he emphasized. “I don’t think I’ve been so enthusiastically hugged in my entire life. She seemed to think she had failed me somehow, although I’ve no idea how she possibly could have. And -” He hesitated. “She seemed -”

“As if she didn’t know where she was - when she was?” James finished, and Thomas nodded.

“Yes. I scarcely wanted to leave her, but then the messenger returned and I came as quickly as I could since you’re alone and Miranda has the servants to look after her. James, what on Earth is going on?”

That settled it, and he felt relief wash over him. He was not alone. Whatever miracle had occurred to land him here, in his younger body, it had evidently happened to Miranda as well, which meant -

“I need to speak with her,” James said. “I need to - “ He turned his head, swallowing hard, and then dragged a hand over his face, his other still resting on Thomas' shoulder. “I need to go and apologize.” 

“Apologize for what?” 

James shook his head.

“All of it. What I did. What I didn’t do.” 

Miranda was back. She was back in time the same as he was, and if he knew her, she would already be working to avoid the catastrophe that was rapidly barrelling their way as soon as she regained her balance after such a rude awakening. She was also alone in the house in Albemarle Street. The thought was - well, it did not bear thinking about. She should not be alone - not now, not ever again if he could help it. Dear God - if she was half as startled and frightened as he had been -!

“James -” Thomas had grabbed hold of his shoulders, and was now looking into his face with the utmost concern. He shook him gently. “James, _what are you talking about?_ ” 

“I need to speak to Miranda. Now,” he answered, pulling away, and Thomas shook his head. 

“No. You’re not going anywhere until you explain what you meant by - James!” 

The shout followed him as he hurried away and out the door, and Thomas followed behind him, cursing softly. 

“You can’t go out in the street like this. You’re not even wearing a hat. James!” 

“I’ll explain everything on the way,” James shouted back over his shoulder, heading for the street. He took the stairs of the lodging house at an alarming pace, garnering a disapproving look from Mrs. Pritchard on his way out the door, and he stopped cold at the sight of the street in front of him. It had not actually hit him before now that he was truly back in London, but the sight of bustling hackney carriages and people bundled up to their ears reminded him, as did the buildings, taller than most in Nassau. There was no denying it - this was England, and James stood, looking up and down the street, a wave of nostalgia washing over him mingled with equal parts sadness and anger at the sight. He had sworn never to set foot here again, and yet here he was, standing on a London street, wearing Navy whites for all the world as if he still belonged here, and some (treacherous, utterly foolish) part of him could not help but feel that he still did.

“Thank goodness.” 

Thomas had caught up to him, panting as he tried to catch his breath, and James turned to face him, shelving his contemplation of his place in this new (old) world for later. His lover had, it seemed, stopped to pick up a few items on his way out of James’ quarters, including James’ uniform coat and hat, which he thrust toward James.

“For heaven’s sake, finish getting dressed first!” Thomas demanded, and James rolled his eyes. He took the items, shrugging the coat on haphazardly and reluctantly putting the hat on his head. It felt odd, like so much else about this day, and he quietly resolved to find a way to lose the silly thing before the day was out. Now he knew what Thomas had meant about the wig.

“Honestly - I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Thomas said. “What ever happened to ‘Thomas for the love of God put some clothes on’ when I dared to go out without a neckcloth?” he asked, clearly perplexed. “Speaking of which - you realize you’re not wearing one? I mean - look at you! Your hair’s a mess, you’re just barely in your shirtsleeves - are you even wearing your boots on the right feet?” 

James looked down, vaguely surprised that somewhere in his rush to get dressed he had in fact thought to pull his boots on. They pinched, he realized, and for a moment he had to consider Thomas’ question seriously.

“Probably,” he answered. The pair looked new - new enough to still be uncomfortable, at any rate. Thomas rolled his eyes heavenward as if to ask for help from the Almighty.

“You’re going to freeze to death if you go on like this!” he scolded.

“Hardly,” James answered with a snort. “It’s - “ 

He looked around. What month was it, anyway? 

“June,” he guessed finally, and Thomas’ frown deepened. Fuck. Not June, then. 

“James -” he started, and James could not help but laugh at the confused, concerned look on his face. He had forgotten that look - the one that Thomas wore but rarely, when one or the other of his lovers had done something alarming - usually Miranda, but James had earned it once or twice. Or hadn’t. Perhaps this was the first time? The thought was an odd one and he suddenly realized that they could have a great many firsts in front of them still - a very large number of them, if he just played his cards right.

“James -” Thomas said slowly, “this is May. Surely you recall that much?” 

“I’m fine,” he reassured, and it was Thomas’ turn to give him a deeply skeptical expression.

“No, you are not,” he said. “James - please. At least let me do something with your hair?”

By this time, Thomas’ carriage had pulled up, and James climbed inside, shortly followed by Thomas, who promptly plucked the hat off of his head.

“I thought you wanted me to wear more clothing,” James teased, and Thomas huffed. 

“I want you to explain what the _blazes_ is going on while I attempt to make it look less as if an errant bird has attempted to make its nest atop your head,” he answered. “You look like a haystack - an unshaven one, at that!” He pulled a comb from an inside pocket of his jacket and began attempting to fix James’ still bed-rumpled hair, leaning forward at an awkward angle to reach James’ head, which he bowed obediently to allow Thomas better access. 

“Now,” Thomas said, “perhaps you’d like to explain why you saw fit to run into the street half-dressed?” 

“You’re lucky I got that far,” James answered, and Thomas stopped grooming him for a moment, fixing him with an exasperated expression.

“Unless you’re going to explain -” he started, and James sighed.

“Very well,” he answered. He blew out a sigh and then raked a hand over his hair, mussing it again. Thomas made a sound that might have been aggravation or simple resignation but said nothing, waiting for James to speak. He cast about for where to start, and once again came up with a blank. How was he meant to start this discussion? 

“I -” he started, and then shook his head. “Miranda should explain it.” Miranda would be much better at this, he thought. She would know where to start, at least, whereas James hardly knew how to begin to make himself sound less insane.

“James, if you don’t tell me what is going on this instant, I’ll -” Thomas started, and then deflated. “Well, I’ll still love you very much although I’ll be extremely cross,” he finished, and James could not help the laugh that made its way out of him. He had forgotten, too, what Thomas’ perplexed expression looked like - how very silly it was, and he grinned.

“God I love you.” The words were out of his mouth almost before he knew it, escaping his lips, and he firmly squashed the part of himself that wanted to apologize or try to cover them with more words. He had held back the last time - too afraid of being overheard, afraid of giving too much away - afraid of so many things. In the wake of Thomas’ death, he had wondered if he had been somehow to blame - if perhaps Thomas had not understood how much James loved him, had not understood that James would have come for him, given enough time. He did not intend to make the same mistakes this time - not with Thomas or Miranda. 

“James -” Thomas was staring at him, a stunned expression on his face, and James grinned at him, unrepentant.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Thomas answered, and this time it was his turn to grin, wide and brilliant. He leaned forward, and James felt his stomach do a flip as Thomas kissed him, long and slow and unhurried, his tongue doing things that James had missed so very badly, and he only barely squashed the moan that tried to make its way out of him. He moved forward, attempting to bring his hands up to Thomas’ back, attempted to return the kiss - and Thomas pulled back, smiling in a satisfied manner.

“I love you as well,” he answered. “And I shall do that again when you have told me what you meant when you said you needed to apologize to Miranda.” 

His lover had never been cruel, James recalled, but he had always known how to get what he wanted. 

“There’s no chance of convincing you to drop this, I suppose?” he asked, and Thomas shook his head. 

“No,” he answered, and James sighed.

“It’s -”

The carriage jolted, the horses coming to a halt with a clatter of hooves, and he realized that they had arrived at the Hamiltons’ mansion.

“Milord!” The cry came from a servant who had been posted at the gate. “Milord - thank God you’ve returned.”

Thomas rose and exited the carriage hurriedly, a worried expression on his face, with James not far behind him. One of the porters - the Cornish one, if James recalled correctly - retrieved James’ hat and handed it to him, and he spared a moment to curse the failure of his first attempt at losing the damned thing.

“Davies - what’s the problem?” he demanded, ignoring Thomas’ confused expression at being skipped in the chain of command.

“Lieutenant - welcome back, sir. I hope -” The head butler began, and James frowned.

“Davies!” he reminded sharply, and the butler flushed.

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “Milord - it’s Lady Hamilton. She’s - she’s not well, sir.”

“Where is she?” James asked, and the butler gave him a look that was halfway between disapproval and surprise.

“Forgive me, Lieutenant, but -”

“It's alright,” Thomas interrupted. “You'll have to forgive the Lieutenant. He’s feeling a bit forceful today. Tell us what's happened.” 

“It's Lady Hamilton. She's behaving- oddly, milord. It started shortly after you left.”

They had entered the house by this time. James stood in the foyer, looking with new eyes on the home he had not seen in over a decade. It was quiet, he realized- almost too quiet, and with a start he realized the reason.

“Davies,” he asked, interrupting the butler's conversation with Thomas, “where is the clock that normally sits in this room?”

Davies winced.

“Lady Hamilton smashed it, sir,” he reported. “She came down the stairs and - forgive me my lord, it happened so quickly-”

James felt something twist inside him at the words. There was no mystery, then, as to how much of their other lives Miranda remembered.

“Take me to her,” he ordered, his voice gone rough with emotion. “Now.”


	3. Thirteen O'Clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, I am absolutely blown away by the response to this! I'd expected maybe one or two comments since I had posted this elsewhere previously, but you guys are awesome! In celebration of your awesomeness and because I sat down today and finally worked out the kinks in the chapter plan for chapters 8 through 10, here's chapter three!

She woke to the feeling of clean, white sheets and the warmth of another person in the bed with her.

At first, she lay still. The last thing she recalled was pain - a burst of it, white hot and blinding. She had been hit in the head, but by what? Whom? She did not recall, but the sensation had been singular, unforgettable. Now, though - 

It was strange, she thought - the way that one person’s habits could become so familiar. Their tread. The way they laughed - coughed, the familiar off-key tune of their whistling. Their breathing.

Thomas shifted, and Miranda felt her heart skip a beat, her breath suddenly coming short. She did not open her eyes - she did not need to, not to recognize him. She had dreamt of this so often in Nassau - waking up to find Thomas returned to her by some magic, his familiar presence in her bed, his feet - 

His freezing feet that she had never, ever dreamt about before. She flinched away from the sensation, and heard her husband snicker, the sound taking her breath away once more.

“There’s no use in pretending to be asleep,” he said, voice laced with amusement. “Or are you determined to punish me with silence for my poor cold toes?”

“I could never bear to punish you,” she croaked, feeling a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Her mind had devised a new way to torture her now - by recreating the exact feeling of Thomas’ presence, the weight of him and the stroke of his skin against hers. Was there no end to the capacity of her memories to bring her pain?

“Miranda?” Thomas’ voice sounded worried, and oh, that was the final straw. She could not bear to make him anxious, not even in a dream. She took a deep breath. It was time to end this. She opened her eyes - 

And then shut them again tightly. 

“Miranda,” Thomas’ voice said again. “Are you quite alright?” 

She cracked her eyes open a fraction and found Thomas’ concerned face looking back at her. He was sitting up in the bed, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges as he scrutinized her face. He reached out a hand to her face, and she gasped, her eyes opening wider as he moved his thumb up and down against her cheek and smiled.

“Good morning,” he said, and Miranda sat up sharply, dislodging Thomas’ hand. This - this was not her bed in Nassau. She could feel panic flutter in her stomach, and she looked around, her eyes darting first to the fireplace and then to the other furnishings in the room, before coming back to light on -

“Thomas?” she whispered. 

“Well I should hope so,” Thomas responded. “Unless you’ve taken a lover besides James that you’ve not told me about!” His tone was teasing, but his blue eyes told a different story, concern at her disorientation mingling with confusion, and in any other circumstance, she would have done her level best to wipe that look off of his face - to do whatever was necessary to ease his mind, but at the moment, all she could do was stare, dumbstruck. She blinked, and then again, as if by doing so she would somehow wake from the dream she was quite obviously trapped in, but Thomas remained in front of her, and the room did not change around them. This - whatever it was, lucid dream, hallucination, vision - held her fast, and she felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise up within her, threatening to escape her lips. She was in London, in the house that she still thought of as her home in so many ways, and Thomas was lying there next to her, and suddenly she did not care whether she dreamt or hallucinated or was simply lost in her own memories, finally gone completely mad. She was there, and Thomas was there, and if she was to be able to dictate her own actions in this particular dream, then she was not going to waste a moment. With that thought, she flung herself forward, clasping her arms around her husband, her hands digging into his bare back, face buried in his shoulder, and she squeezed tightly, ignoring the small sound of surprise that escaped him. His skin was warm against hers, and for just one glorious moment, she allowed herself to believe that he was there - truly there beside her, not a phantom. She could feel him tense - felt the concern and confusion that radiated off of him, and she ignored it, embracing him tighter, unwilling to let go ever again.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “So sorry, Thomas. I failed - failed you -” 

Thomas reared back, a frown gracing his features.

“Miranda - what on Earth are you talking about?” 

She shook her head. She could not speak - could not articulate her betrayal, even now.

“I failed you,” she repeated. “Thomas - I -”

He shook his head.

“Miranda,” he repeated, and took her by the shoulders. “Darling - it’s alright. Whatever you think you’ve done -”

He did not know, she realized, looking at his blue eyes. There was concern there - concern, and love, and _confusion_ , and why would her mind have conjured up Thomas if it was not also going to allow her the simple comfort of closure, whether it came through forgiveness or the recrimination she so deserved for her actions?

“I - I left you,” she confessed in a hoarse voice. “I should have stayed. I shouldn’t have listened - shouldn’t have convinced James.” She pulled away, tears still wetting her cheeks, and Thomas looked at her with no more comprehension than he had a moment before.

“I’m right here,” he said, a half-smile forming on his lips. “My love, I don’t know what you dreamt, but I promise you - I’m right here.” He kissed the top of her head, and she felt a shudder travel down her spine. This was wrong. This was all so terribly wrong. Thomas was long dead - buried or burned, depending on whether the Earl had seen fit to give his son a decent burial or allowed him to be handled as yet another suicide from Bedlam. He should not be here, holding her, smiling as if she had never abandoned him to that fate - as if nothing had changed. He should, at the very least, know why she was apologizing, and furthermore, why did he seem to believe that she had dreamt the entire decade of misery she had experienced? The sense of wrongness grew, and she closed her eyes, trying to retain some clawing hold on sanity. What was happening to her?

The knock that sounded on the door was almost a relief. Thomas released her, sitting up straighter.

“Yes?” he called.

“My lord - your messenger has returned.” 

He frowned.

“Is there another part to that statement?” 

“My lord - it seems that Lieutenant McGraw is not well. The messenger seems a bit… ruffled, if you’ll pardon my saying so.” 

“Ruffled?” 

“He - ah - he claims the Lieutenant has gone mad, sir.” 

Thomas sighed, and turned to Miranda, his eyes still worried.

“Darling - it sounds as though my attention is needed elsewhere. I don’t wish to leave you, but -”

“James needs you,” she finished, the familiar refrain tripping over her lips. “Go to him. I’ll - I’ll see you when you return.” Something in her twisted at the words. She wanted to hold fast to Thomas - never to let him out of her sight ever again, to rail and scream and refuse to let him go, to tell him that James was a grown adult and a stubborn, foolish one at that, but she could not find it in her even now to do so. James needed Thomas. It was a fact of life, and one that had never been quite so obvious as it was to her now in the wake of her conversation with James prior to dinner. She could not bear to keep them from each other, not even in dreams. 

“You’re certain?” Thomas asked, his hands not yet removed from her shoulders, and she nodded. He stood, and she took the time to drink in the sight of him. He had always had a pleasantly firm rear end, she recalled, and no one had ever accused Thomas Hamilton of having anything but the finest of musculature, particularly in regards to his back. She watched him dress in silence, enjoying the view, and saw him toss an anxious look over his shoulder.

“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he promised. “I’m sorry to leave like this. I can’t imagine what’s gotten into James - he’s normally quite steady.” The worry in his voice brought a smile to her lips, slight, but there nonetheless. Her men had always been so very protective of one another. Really, it should not have come as any surprise that James fell apart when he failed in what he saw as his duty to safeguard Thomas. Idly, she wondered what might have happened had Thomas been put in James position and shelved it after only a moment. It did not bear contemplation. Her husband turned back toward her and wrapped one hand around the back of her neck, leaning down to kiss her, and she reveled in the sensation - in the warmth of his hand, in the taste and smell of him, and when he pulled away she could almost have sobbed at the loss.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, and she watched him go. He would not be back soon. He never was, and she always woke to find herself alone once again but oh - these moments when she found him in dreams were worth the heartbreak. She rolled over in the bed. If she closed her eyes, perhaps she could waken once again in a happier dream.

She woke in the same room.

For several moments, she was disoriented again, looking about the room wildly, but this time there was no Thomas, nor was there anything wildly out of place as there should have been if this had been one of the many dreams she had had where she wandered the house in search of him, never quite managing to find her way to the stairs. She found her way there now, shift brushing against her ankles as she descended the stairs, her fingers barely touching the smooth wooden bannister. This should not be happening. She had woken from dreaming - woken from the pleasant fiction of Thomas’ presence, and yet she had not, for this house was undeniably the house she and Thomas had inhabited, right down to the last details. She knew the scent of the air, the feeling of the floors under her bare feet -

The ticking of the clock in the front hall. The noise caught her attention, and her breath caught in her chest. The wretched clock, returned to its place, exactly where she and Thomas had left it. She felt anger well up within her, and she choked on it. The clock had returned and she - 

What was she doing here? Had she been transported here somehow, brought back to London without waking for the entire six week trip? Or was her mind still playing tricks on her, still taunting her with the shadows of the life that had been so violently ripped away from her for good by the sight of that very clock? The thought only increased her rage, and she moved the rest of the way down the stairs almost without conscious volition. If she could not escape this waking dream, then she would not share it with that clock - with the reminder of all of her failures. She laid hands on the wretched thing, pulling with all her might.

“My lady? Lady Hamilton!” The servants’ voices barely registered in the back of her mind as she watched the clock begin to tip, and she stepped back, allowing it to fall forward even as the servants gasped and attempted to dart forward to save it. It was no use - they were all too far away, and the timepiece fell with an almighty crash, the bells within sounding a confused, deafening clangor as they hit the front of the clock. Glass smashed, flying up, and Miranda raised a hand, shielding her face from the shards. It was illogical - she never bled in dreams, and so it was doubly startling when she felt one of the shards hit her palm, slicing it open. She lowered her hand, letting out a gasp at the pain, and stared, shocked, at the red of her own blood beginning to well out of the wound. She did not bleed in dreams - she knew, because she had dreamt of such injuries before. Never had one of them hurt, and the obvious conclusion that followed caused her heart to flutter in her chest, a strange lump rising in her throat. If she was not dreaming -

The servants were still staring in shocked silence at Miranda and the shattered clock. 

“My lady,” one of them whispered, and she came back to herself with a jolt. “You’re bleeding,” the girl pointed out, and Miranda nodded. The pain and the blood confirmed what Thomas’ presence never could have, and she felt suddenly ill. She was not dreaming - not imagining any of this. The hall clock still lay, a ruined mess at her feet, and she - 

She was standing in her own front hall, looking the part of the mad witch that James’ crew had accused her of being. 

“I - I don’t know what came over me,” she murmured. “I -” She choked back a hysterical laugh. If she was truly here - truly returned to Albemarle Street - she looked down to the clock at her feet, feeling the bitter irony of it all hit her once again. Her actions would be taken as madness - it would be all too easy, and they would be right back to the same horrifying situation they had been in before, only this time she would be the one locked away in Bedlam, and while she perhaps deserved it for her crimes, her men did not. Thomas should never be forced to take on her role, and she would not, could not, force James to go through another such ordeal. No. There had to be a way to mitigate this - to make this - 

She was being led upstairs, she realized. In her dazed state, she had not even felt the maid wrap her hand in a handkerchief.

“My lady -” the girl started, and Miranda turned to her, seeing her properly for the first time. It was not her faithful Mathilde, but Mary, one of the younger maids in the household. She was looking at Miranda now with undisguised concern, her hand holding Miranda’s up such that the blood from her injury did not touch her linen shift, keeping pressure on the wound. The bleeding had mostly ceased by this time, continuing only sluggishly, and Miranda spared a moment for the realization that the hand she had injured had none of the calluses she had developed in Nassau that would have better protected her from such an eventuality. She marveled for a second at her own skin - the softness of it, as if she had never done a day’s work in her life, which indeed, if what she suspected were true, she had not.

“My lady,” Mary urged. “My lady - please. The doctor is on his way.”

“The doctor?” Miranda asked sharply, a spike of panic shooting through her.

“For your hand, my lady,” the girl answered, and Miranda shook her head.

“No,” she said. “It’s scarcely more than a scratch. Nothing to be worried about, certainly.” She looked back at the broken glass that littered the hall floor. “You may tell Lord Hamilton when he returns that if he wants to tell the time, then he will have to go out and buy a new clock. Some time away from the house will be good for his health.” She turned and stalked back up the stairs, leaving the servants to stare. She controlled the shaking of her hands until she reached her bedroom, the very picture of an angry noblewoman until the moment the door closed and the latch clicked. She sank down onto the chair in front of her vanity table, closing her eyes tightly. 

She had to hope it would be enough. There were only two possible interpretations for her actions, and if she wished to avoid anyone coming to the conclusion that she had taken leave of her senses, she had to be seen to be blindingly angry. No one would question a noblewoman destroying property on a whim - no one, that was, except her husband, who would presumably be both hurt and confused when he returned to the house. It could not be helped, though, and she allowed herself a tiny, nearly inaudible sob at the thought. She was back. She was here, against all laws of time and physics, possibly against the natural order laid down by God, truly here, and why, oh why had she not realized it sooner, before her foolishness led to this? She would have to ignore him for days - refuse to see him, and it would be torture, because he was here, alive, and she wanted nothing more than to embrace him and never, ever let go again. Anger welled up in her again, and she allowed it to wash over her in full force, bringing tears to her eyes with the force of it. She was back in London - now, after she had finally realized the full scope of the betrayal that had been perpetrated against them. Now, after she had finally thrown aside civilization and everything that went with it, now that she had given up on the dream of taking up the life that had been stolen from her alongside James. 

James. He would be here too, but not her James. Not the man that she had known for better than ten years, who had suffered the same privations, the same indignities. Not the man she had grieved alongside and loved despite his flaws, who had loved her when he had given up on all else. The thought was a fresh stab to the chest. There had been much about James Flint she had hated - his stubborn insistence on clinging to his rage, his intractability, his conviction that the world was out to destroy him, and just as she began to understand it - understand _him_ \- more fully than she ever had before, just as they had finally started to tear down the walls between them and truly work in tandem - he was gone.

“Miranda?” 

Or perhaps not, at least not in the most literal sense. She turned, startled, at the sound of the voice at her door, at once familiar and welcome and heart-rending. 

“Go away!” The words were out of her mouth before she could recall them, childish and petty but utterly heartfelt. The irony of the situation was not lost on her even as she spoke the words, her voice only just barely held steady. She had spent ten years longing for a glimpse of Lieutenant McGraw within the hard shell of Flint, and now that he stood just a few feet away, she could not face him. She could not stand to see James’ face and find no sympathy, no empathy or understanding of her feelings right now - she simply could not. Scarce hours before she had had her world ripped away from her, and the shock -

“Miranda - I -” James started again, and Miranda felt a wave of anger wash over her. The shock was rapidly being replaced by burning, blinding hatred. She felt it travel through her, hot and terrifying in its strength, and she clenched her injured hand, feeling the burn of the cut on it, welcoming the sensation. She had felt anger before - had felt hatred, before, too, but this was different - wilder, somehow, less controlled or calculated than anything she had ever felt before. This - dear God, was this what James had felt when he had killed Alfred? When he had gotten into fight after needless fight? Was _this_ what he had been carrying all this time? 

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I am not in any mood for company” she started. She needed a moment to get this under control - to find a way to breathe through it, to put it away where it could not spill out and hurt someone. She needed to -

“Miranda - it’s me. Open the door.” 

She froze. She could not have said what it was about James’ voice that had changed, but something in it had. It lacked something - something she could not quite put a finger on. The sharp edge of impatience or the teasing tone that might have colored his voice in the too-brief days they had spent in this house as young lovers was missing, somehow, replaced by -

She inhaled sharply, the anger that had flooded her veins only a moment before ebbing, still there but overtaken by sharp-edged longing.

“James?” she allowed the name to fall from her lips, a barely audible whisper.

“I owe you an apology, if you’ll hear it,” he said, and she felt her heart skip a beat. She rose from the vanity, and opened the door to find him standing outside. 

He looked like James McGraw or rather, he looked like a version of James McGraw that had been subjected to Thomas’ wandering hands on the way here and had not bothered to tidy himself after. His hair was slightly rumpled and only tied back hastily with a black ribbon. He was not wearing a neckcloth, and his uniform coat looked as if it had been thrown on at the last minute, hanging oddly where the lines had not been adjusted properly. His stubble-covered jaw completed the unkempt look, but his eyes were the true clue. He looked at her as if he had not seen her in an age, and she could not stop herself from inhaling sharply, her hand reaching out of its own volition to touch his face.

“James?” she questioned again, and the corner of his mouth turned upward.

“Hello,” he answered, and she stood, looking at him with something akin to wonder.

“Hello,” she repeated, and then, without ceremony, she flung herself forward, catching him between her outstretched arms and wrapping him in a fierce hug. She felt his arms wrap around her in return, and the force of his embrace nearly knocked the wind out of her even as she heard him give a huff of breath at the strength of hers.

“Miranda,” he breathed. “Thank God. I - ” He stopped. “I’ve missed you,” he said roughly and she tightened her grip on his back.

“I’m sorry, James,” she choked. She could feel tears running down her cheeks, and was almost surprised to find that the same was true of him. “So sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” he answered. “If I’d listened earlier -” 

“I had no right to ask,” she choked. “No right. I should have realized -” 

“You had every right,” he interrupted. “Christ, Miranda, I -” He raked a hand through his hair, and then over his face, grimacing when he remembered that he no longer had a beard to stroke. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, and she nodded, understanding. He had apologized once before, in the front pages of a book that she had never gotten to read, but it was good to hear it from him out loud. 

“It’s behind us,” she answered, feeling it settle in for the first time, and she looked around her at the house - at the room she stood in, and finally, at James himself. 

“If you need a moment -” James started to offer, and she shook her head. 

“No,” she answered, and could not quite help the small grin that started at the corners of her mouth. “No,” she repeated, and then gave a short giggle. “My God, James,” she teased, “what wild creature savaged you on your way here?” He snorted.

“Thomas said the same,” he answered, and Miranda started. Of course. Thomas had gone to see to James, which meant he could not help but be close behind, and she was meant to be furious at him. 

“Thomas,” she breathed. “I had forgotten! James - he can’t -”

“Tell me,” said the voice of the man in question. “Is there a reason that I’m climbing onto my own balcony, or have you both decided to play an elaborate joke?” 

Miranda turned, and found Thomas standing not far away. The look on his face was distinctly disgruntled, and there was a streak of what appeared to be white paint on the corner of his waistcoat. He had shucked off his coat, presumably leaving it in whichever room he had come from, and his blond hair was wind-tousled, giving further evidence that he had come from outside the room, having climbed out a window and made his way along the ledge to reach Miranda’s balcony. 

“Thomas. You said you would wait,” James said reprovingly, and Thomas made a face. 

“No - I said that I would give you time to talk to Miranda and be along shortly. It was more of a challenge than I expected,” he said ruefully, holding up paint-smudged, somewhat scraped hands. “I thought that as you seemed determined to put the servants off by acting as if we were arguing it might be best to play along until - why are you both looking at me like that?”

“I’d forgotten how clever you were,” James said wryly, and Miranda could not help but agree. Thomas frowned, visibly affronted.

“I’ve hardly uttered the wisdom of Solomon,” he protested. “And I’ll thank you to stop speaking of me in the past tense. What on Earth is going on?” 

Miranda turned back to James, who had the good grace to look slightly ashamed of himself.

“You haven’t told him, then,” she said, and James winced.

“I didn’t know where to start,” he confessed, and she sighed. Without another word, she walked over to Thomas.

“Thomas,” she said, and stopped, eyes scanning her husband’s face, mouth suddenly gone dry. She shook her head and, reaching up, gently placed both hands on Thomas’ chest. She pressed her lips together, firmly forbidding them from engaging in other activities no matter how badly she wanted to kiss her husband and never, ever cease doing so ever again. “We have a great deal to explain and I think you had best be sitting down when you hear it.”


	4. The Pattern Shifts

He had forgotten what it was to be safe.

This feeling - this feeling of being completely, utterly without any kind of threat to be fought, without any enemies in his vicinity - had become foreign sometime in the last decade, James thought hazily. Nevertheless, he could not help but admit that at the moment, he was in fact safer and more comfortable than he had been since that last morning in London, later in this same year. He was lying between Thomas and Miranda on the bed, still nude, sweat from their exertions still cooling, his legs still quite buried under theirs. He could not find the strength to move - not even to find his clothing and therefore a modicum of both protection and decency. It was decadent. It was frivolous, and it was absolutely fucking glorious. The feeling of cool sheets against his bare skin was enough to make it worth staying for at least another hour or two, and he silently granted himself permission to do just that, enjoying the sensation as a breeze blew in through the still-open window, the sounds of the street below far removed from the cushioned bower he now found himself in.

“James?” Miranda’s voice sounded from his left, and he turned, meeting her eyes. “Are you alright?” 

He smiled lazily, not even bothering to sit up.

“Better than alright,” he admitted, stretching slightly and grinning still wider at the soreness in his muscles. “I haven’t felt like this in….” He tried to think back, tried to remember and failed.

“Too long,” Miranda filled in, and he nodded. Her brows drew together, an expression that was half sorrow and half fondness stealing over her face.

“I’m sorry, darling. I should have -”

He shook his head.

“We both should have,” James interrupted her, refusing the apology. He looked her up and down again, the corner of his mouth turning upward once more. “I’d forgotten what it was like - this, I mean. You looked -” He stopped, searching for a word for the radiant expression on Miranda’s face as both he and Thomas had lavished attention on her. There was no word that was sufficient - not really. “Breath-taking,” he finished finally, and she smiled. 

“I could continue doing this all day long,” she admitted, running one hand over his chest and resting it on his stomach. “It feels like it’s been longer than it has - longer than a month.”

“It has,” James pointed out. “When was the last time we actually took the time to enjoy ourselves?”

“You had just taken a prize off of Barbados,” she recalled. “You came home in the rain and -”

“God, yes,” he interrupted. “I was fucking soaked and you told me to strip if I was going to come in the house so that I wouldn’t drip on your floor. I’m fairly certain the crone from next door was actually still in the garden. Wonder if she enjoyed the view.” 

“I’m sure she did,” Miranda said with a snort. “I couldn’t seem to shake her for four months afterward - hoping for a repeat performance, no doubt! She was approximately as pious as the rabbits she spent so much time scaring away.” 

He laughed. That felt good as well - the ability to simply express his feelings rather than bundling them away behind ten layers of lies and secrets. He felt as if he had spent the last eleven years living behind not just a figurative but a literal mask, and now that there was no need for it he found himself trying to adjust to the realization that he could let Thomas and Miranda at least see what he was thinking. It was a new challenge in and of itself, he was finding, but one he was determined to master.

He’d been afraid, when they had first started to tell Thomas. Afraid of what his lover would say - afraid he would think them both mad, or lying, or that he would want nothing more to do with them after all they had done. He should have known better, he thought, as he looked down fondly at Thomas’ sleeping form. 

_Thomas sat on the bed, his face gone utterly white._

_“You’re - you’re not joking.” He was looking between them, his blue eyes wide. “Dear God,” he choked. “You’re - All of that truly happened?”_

_They were all sitting on the bed, exactly where they’d started when James and Miranda had sat Thomas down two hours before and begun their tale. Since then, Thomas had hardly moved a muscle, too fascinated and utterly shocked and horrified at the words coming from his lovers’ mouths. He was, James thought privately, taking it rather better than he’d expected, although he had interrupted them several times to ask questions and once, notably, at the revelation of Peter’s betrayal, he’d risen from the bed, pacing the room, every line in his body filled with tension and standing by the window, staring out of it for several moments before coming back to rejoin them, his eyes suspiciously wet and his breathing ever so slightly ragged._

_“Yes,” Miranda confirmed. “Thomas - I realize that this may be difficult to believe - or that you may not wish to - to be further associated with either of us after -”_

_“What?” Thomas asked, his face screwing up in confusion. “Why on Earth would I want to distance myself from either of you?”_

_“Thomas -” James attempted. “We’ve just told you we’re murderers. We planned your father’s death. You shouldn’t -”_

_“Oh what utter nonsense,” Thomas breathed, tears rising in his eyes. “You truly think - come here, both of you, right now.”_

_They had gone to him, arms wrapping around him, and the three of them had held onto each other for several moments, unable and unwilling to let go._

_“You’re a pair of fools if you think I’m going to toss you out on your ears after what you just told me. My God,” Thomas had uttered. “To think you’ve been through such horrors-”_

_“I’m sorry,” James had choked. “I’m sorry, Thomas. We were -”_

_“No,” Thomas cut him off. “I won’t hear it. My God, James - you don’t seriously intend to apologize for crimes that, by simple logic, are no longer yours to own?”_

_“There is no evidence but -” James started._

_“But nothing. Take it as a lesson, if you will, but I refuse to have you flagellate yourself over evils that have been wiped clean by the grace of God or whatever mischievous imp is responsible for your good fortune. Let it never happen again and let it go at that. I mean it, **both** of you.” _

_“Promise us,” Miranda had demanded. “I can’t go through that again, Thomas. Not again. Swear to me -”_

_“I swear,” he breathed. “I swear it. Never again.” He leaned over and planted a kiss against her temple, and frowned when she shuddered at the contact, her breath catching in her throat._

_“Miranda -” he started, and then saw the look in her eyes, sorrow mixed with relief and all underlain by an emotion much more familiar to him. “Miranda,” he said, in quite a different tone, and she slid closer._

_“Thomas,” she returned._

_“How long?” he asked, his blue eyes searching hers._

_“Ten years,” James rasped behind him, catching onto what she meant to ask. “Ten fucking years since they put you in the ground -”_

_Thomas reached up without hesitation and cupped James’ cheek, watching him close his eyes and hearing his breath catch in his throat._

_“Oh **James** ,” he murmured. “Come. Let’s fix that, then, shall we?”_

“I still can’t believe we’re here,” James said. “It still seems like a dream from which I'm about to wake but it can’t be.”

“No,” Miranda confirmed. “It’s very real. He is very real.” Their eyes met. The agreement went unspoken, there and clad in steel nonetheless. They had been granted a second chance - a second life, and the man snoring gently on James’ right side was the very center of that new life, as he had been of the old. There would be no repeats of the past - no leaving him behind. They would live or die together. Captain Flint may have been dead and buried, but James McGraw had always been formidable in his own right and any scruples Miranda had had about doing what was necessary to protect her men had died with her, lost in the ticking of the clock and the sound of a gunshot.

“What are we going to do?” James asked quietly.

“You’re going to leave it to me,” came a muffled voice from beside them. Thomas, it seemed, had woken, and he sat up, his blond hair rumpled but his eyes bright and determined. 

“Thomas -” James started, and Thomas shook his head.

“No,” he said firmly. “I could hear you two plotting. I won’t have it. You’re going to let me handle this, this time, and see if we can’t all try to do better.” 

That - well, if James was being honest with himself for a change, it sounded wonderful. Some part of him wanted to protest - wanted to point out that he was meant to be saving Thomas, not the other way around, and yet a larger part, the part that had been through ten years of pain and anger and grief, really, truly wanted to let someone else take the wheel for once, even if only for a short time. And hell, Thomas’ plan couldn’t possibly be any worse than some of the things Flint had done trying to save Nassau.

“What are you thinking of doing?” he asked, finally, and Thomas grinned - a thoroughly naughty expression that James couldn’t help but echo. 

“This will sound a bit mad, but hear me out…”

Two Weeks Later:

“Well? How did it go?” 

The voice sounded the moment that Thomas had left the presence chamber, an anxious whisper that nevertheless resounded against the walls, bouncing between the paintings in their immediate vicinity and off the marble floor. He turned, finding the source of the whisper standing directly beside the door, a look of worry and of anticipation on his face 

“Well, all things considered,” Thomas answered, and Peter Ashe scoffed.

“Stop avoiding the question. Did she agree?” 

Thomas grinned. He could not help it - the expression slipped onto his face before he could stop it, and Ashe gaped.

“She did?!” 

Thomas nodded.

“By the grace of her Majesty, Queen Anne I, you are looking at the new Governor of New Providence Island and the surrounding territories, etc and so on,” he confirmed.

“And the pardons?” 

“Will go through without further delay, as we had hoped, given the full support of the new governor for the plan.”

Ashe laughed, a delighted expression on his face.

“You sly devil! How did you manage it?” 

“Let’s not count our chickens before they’ve hatched,” Thomas cautioned. “I’ll celebrate when this becomes official, not before.”

“Yes, yes,” Ashe agreed. “But how did you do it?” 

“It was simplicity itself, as it turned out,” Thomas answered with a shrug. “As we’ve both pointed out in assembly, Nassau is a valuable outpost - the stepping stone to the Northern Bahama Islands and the Carolinas, in fact. We cannot afford to lose it to pirates if we wish to win this war, nor can we afford to so completely alienate our own people through the continued use of the law as a bludgeon.”

“You said that? To the Queen?” 

Thomas smiled.

“I may have hinted that she would not wish to appear to emulate her father or her royal cousin across the Channel in their autocratic views.”

Ashe stopped and stared, and Thomas allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at the other man’s expression.

“Good God,” Ashe choked at last. “Thomas -” He shook his head. “How have you survived thus far?” 

“A combination of good luck and being quick on my feet, I suspect,” Thomas answered, unrepentant. He was in a fine mood, and Ashe’s disapproval could not spoil it. He had won - they had won. The sun shone brightly outside the windows, the bright summer day beckoned, and for the very first time in his memory, Thomas had managed to win an argument against his father - truly win it, not just wrestle a pyrrhic victory from his gnarled hands. The feeling was indescribable, and he could not quite help the small spring in his step as he descended the stairs of Kensington Palace. He had won. Indeed, barring a catastrophic event, the future looked brighter than it had in several years, and he pictured with glee the looks on James’ and Miranda’s faces when he told them his news.

_“It’s suicide,” James had argued. “You can’t -”_

_“Look - you said it yourself. The pardons work,” Thomas answered stubbornly. They were all still in Miranda’s room, sitting side by side on the bed, with James’ firmly sandwiched between the two Hamiltons as the one most in need of comfort at the moment. The morning had long since passed, and rays of late afternoon sunshine were now creeping in through the windows. The three of them had not budged since they had first come together, and Thomas found that he had no desire to do so._

_James and Miranda looked so very different._

_That alone would have been enough to substantiate their words, Thomas thought. It was not a physical change. Miranda still looked like the relatively young woman that she was, and James bore no more marks of age than he had the previous day. No - the change was in their eyes and in the way they held themselves. They were sitting on the bed, their legs either neatly tucked up under themselves or, in James’ case, stretched out. They had reluctantly pulled on their clothing some time since but left their shoes off, meaning that James’ bare foot was still in the vicinity of Thomas’ leg, and he still had not bothered to pull on a waistcoat - used, he said, to being at sea, where such things were not only unnecessary but entirely too warm. For all the vulnerability implied, though, Thomas’ two lovers were wound as tight as a pair of twine balls, visibly uncomfortable. Time had not been kind to them - that much was plain. He could see the difference in the line of James’ shoulders - tense, as if by habit, his hands twitching as if he had lost the ability or the luxury of simply sitting with nothing to do. It was in the way that he had grasped Miranda’s hand as if he could not quite believe that she was truly there as he told them both of the horrors that had occurred after her death in a reality that Thomas found himself struggling to imagine. It was in the understanding and even agreement in Miranda’s eyes as James had described what he had done in the wake of her murder - in the anger in both their gazes as they described the betrayal and ruin of everything they and Thomas had held dear. It was in the way they looked at Thomas himself even now, as if he might yet disappear if they allowed him out of their sight. The life they described was written on them, despite the lack of scars or other signs, and the fact that they had been so changed - that they had endured so much - sent a spike of fury running through him. His father had done this - his father and Peter Ashe and he himself in that other world where he had stolidly refused to see the light of reason, so blinded by his idealism. He was angry at himself quite as much as the other two, and that anger had spurred him to action. He could not bring change to England and peace to Nassau through the means he had been attempting. That much was plain, but that did not mean it could not be accomplished. His father evidently had no scruples about doing harm to him or the ones he loved, and so a return on the favor was called for._

_“Yes!” James answered, plainly exasperated. “The fucking pardons worked! In ten years time, when the war was over and your father nine years in the ground, not now! Not with him -”_

_“What if there were a way to neutralize him? A way to stop him from interfering at the same time as the pardons go through?”_

_“You wouldn’t,” Miranda breathed, and Thomas turned to her._

_“I would, in a heartbeat.” Her eyes widened, and he sighed._

_“James - Miranda - please. I haven’t sat here listening to you talk all morning only to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear. You have suffered. You have lost everything you cared for, and it is down to my stupidity - my foolish belief that my father could be reasoned with. He can’t. I see that now, and if I have to act against him to ensure that you never endure such losses again, then I’ll do it. Let me do it.”_

_“No.” The hoarse croak came from James. “No. Thomas - I’ve been down the road you’re thinking of taking. You cannot -”_

_“James, what on Earth do you think I’m referring to?” Thomas asked, one eyebrow raised._

_“You spoke of neutralizing your father,” James said flatly. “I can think of only one way to -”_

_Oh. Oh! It occurred to him quite suddenly what his sentence had led James to believe, and he shook his head._

_“No! God, James - no,” he reassured him. “I spoke of neutralizing him, not killing him.”_

_James released a breath._

_“Truly? You’re not planning on -?” he asked, and Thomas shook his head._

_“No. What I have planned might not be kind, but it shouldn’t kill him. Theoretically.”_

_The expression on James’ face was a cross between relief and sudden, stricken realization._

_“Oh,” he said, his voice oddly quiet. “That’s -” He looked shaken, all of a sudden, as if it had only just struck him what he thought Thomas had been planning. “God,” he murmured. “Thomas, I -”_

_“It’s alright,” Thomas assured him._

_“It’s not alright,” James argued. “I swore -”_

_“You swore to let Captain Flint go, and from where I sit, you have,” Thomas said. “It’s not as if you were trying to encourage me, after all. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” James looked up at him, relief plain in his eyes along with self-recrimination, and Thomas once again cursed that other version of himself that had been so utterly, unforgivably selfish as to force James to become the man he was now trying so desperately to stuff back into the deep recesses of his soul. He reached out, wrapping an arm around his lover’s shoulders in a comforting embrace, and saw James swallow hard, saw the moment that horror and frustration turned back to resolve._

_“No. I wasn’t,” he said at length. He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “If not that - then what **are** you planning?” he asked, and Thomas grinned. _

“You realize that your father will not take this lying down?” 

Ashe was still at his elbow, descending the stairs at a slightly faster pace than was usual to keep up with Thomas’s longer stride.

“I know!” Thomas answered cheerfully, and Ashe gave a sound that was a mix between frustration and fear behind him.

“Then what are you going to do?” 

“It’s already done!” Thomas all but sang. “It’s done, and there’s not a thing he can do about it. Let’s see him try to weasel his way out of this one!” 

“Thomas -” Ashe caught his arm. “What have you done?” 

“I’ve ruined him.” Thomas answered. 

It had been so simple, really. Too simple. It was amazing, Thomas found, what his father had left sitting in the wrong places - the number of people he had somehow failed to warn not to speak with his eldest son or daughter-in-law, had failed to warn about the rift that had opened between them in recent months. It had taken Miranda no more than a few days to locate a weakness in Alfred’s seemingly ironclad power structure and she had taken particular joy in working her way into that crack, tearing apart Alfred’s alliances with a single-minded viciousness that Thomas would not previously have suspected his wife of possessing. Indeed, she had seemed to revel in using what she claimed were badly rusted political skills, although to Thomas’ eyes it appeared those skills were very much sharpened and gleaming. Thomas still found himself marvelling at the ease of it all, even as they gathered the evidence that he had just presented to the Queen. 

“Ruined?” Ashe’s voice came out in a sort of strangled squeak, and Thomas felt his hand falter in its grip. He turned to find the older man staring at him, a grey hue to his face all of a sudden, and Thomas sighed. He had not been looking forward to this moment, and here it was already.

“Oh, Peter,” he said, shaking his head. “You truly didn’t see it coming, did you?” Something flickered in Ashe’s eyes - fear, perhaps, followed by stunned realization.

“You knew,” he whispered, and Thomas nodded. 

“Yes. You really should have picked your patron a bit better. I’m sorry it’s worked out like this.” 

Truly, he was sorry. As of this moment, Peter Ashe’s only crime was to be in the way when Alfred Hamilton decided that he wanted an inside man spying on his son and daughter-in-law. And yet - and yet Thomas could not quite drive the look of anguish on James’ face out of his mind as he had spoken in a shaking voice of Miranda’s murder. Could not quite get the image of Miranda’s face as she spoke of his own death out of his head, and the combination had decided him. His father was a foregone conclusion, but if he was to truly dodge fate, he would have to remove Peter from the playing field as well. He was not, however, a monster.

“Listen, Peter,” he started, and Ashe began to back away.

“You knew all along!” he said, tone shading into hysteria now. “You knew, and you -!” 

“Not all along,” Thomas answered. “I found out a week ago. If it’s any consolation, you had the wool pulled over my eyes rather well. You always were a good actor.”

Peter let out a bark of laughter.

“You’ve - I -” he started. “My wife. My daughter. You’ve -”

“I’ve saved your damn hide for their sakes,” Thomas snapped. “I don’t know what game you thought you were playing, Peter, but you had better be glad that I caught on now before anyone could get hurt, because mark my words, if anything had happened to James or Miranda -!” 

Ashe stood, staring, and Thomas took a deep breath.

“You still have a chance to extricate yourself,” he said. “I’ve created an opportunity for you in the New World. If you take it, you might still be able to salvage your reputation once this is all finished.” 

Ashe appeared as if he had been struck.

“The Carolinas?” he asked, and Thomas shook his head.

“No. I don’t trust you to show the kind of restraint necessary, and I’d rather not have you that far away. I’ve an uncle in Jamaica who is about to be in rather a lot of trouble. I’d like you to take his place. I think you might just be able to make a difference there.” 

“Jamaica?” Ashe repeated.

“Yes. We’ll be neighbors of a sort,” Thomas said. He stepped away from Peter, now, and he watched the other man take a shaking breath. 

“Jamaica,” he repeated, seeming to test the idea. “That’s -” He swallowed hard. “Well, it could be worse,” he said, and Thomas gave him a half-smile.

“Yes, it could.” He turned, and heard Ashe clear his throat behind him.

“Thomas - I’m sorry,” he offered. “I never intended - the Earl had me by the throat.”

“I know, Peter,” Thomas answered.

“Where are you going now?” 

Thomas smiled, feeling the return of the giddiness that had taken him when he had first exited the Queen’s presence.

“It appears that I have a colony to run.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are the stuff that keeps me writing this thing! Chapter 7 is now almost finished, but it's fighting me, so some encouragement would be more than welcome!


	5. Nob and Nobility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in celebration of the fact that I am finally two chapters ahead as per usual, having managed to force Chapter 7 to behave itself, here is the next chapter! In which James, Thomas, and Miranda attend a party, conversations are had, and James finds himself cornered.

He had forgotten how much he hated society parties.

It was unavoidable, of course. The promotion of Lord Hamilton to Governor Hamilton could not go without recognition, and with it came recognition of his own recent (and long overdue, Thomas had muttered) ascension to the lofty rank of Captain McGraw. Still, it was - beyond odd, being back here in Whitehall. Everything about it felt wrong, from the crisp uniform to the odd feeling of cloth around his neck to the very smell of the place. Though he knew that he had no reason to fear it, he could not quite help the sense of trepidation that filled him at the very sight of the building, as if at any moment he might be recognized and carted away to prison, and he had to steel himself before walking through the ornate double doors, abruptly glad that full military uniform at least included a sword, although the one at his side would not have passed muster for a battle of any length over five minutes. He found himself wishing for the sturdy blade that had served him through ten years of life as a pirate, and he silently resolved to replace the one at his side with a blade that stood half a chance of surviving an actual engagement, even though he had no intention of becoming involved in one any time in the near future. Or the distant future, for that matter, God and the fuc - bloody British Empire willing.

He had argued with Thomas about this aspect of the plan. Granted, the argument had not lasted long, for while James was perfectly willing to dispute Thomas’ plans with him, in the end, he could not help but be grateful that he was alive and there to have the argument, which tended to defeat even James’ most serious attempts at denying him what he wanted. He had, at least, made a more resolute attempt this time. He was determined that his fondness was not going to overcome good sense - not again.

_“It’s only for a time, James!” Thomas had argued. “It will be over before you know it, and we’ll be away from here, free to do as we please in our own colony!”_

_“Not free, Thomas - you know better. It will be a British colony, guarded by the British Navy -”_

_“Not forever,” Thomas argued. “If we offer the men on that beach pardons, by necessity, some of them will still need an occupation at sea. It’s all they’ll know how to do - that’s half the reason there are pirates to begin with. I propose to start our own Navy, one made up of common men, and run the ships as they are accustomed to, with proper pay -”_

_“If you allow them to run the ships in the way that they’ve become accustomed to, half of them will spend the large majority of their time too drunk to perform their duties,” James pointed out dryly._

_“- and captains that are agreed upon by the men, with you in charge of the whole enterprise to impose order,” Thomas finished, shooting James a reproving look. “Really, James - you’ve become quite the cynic. Have some faith!”_

_“I suppose drunk and happy with their lot is better than beaten and mutinous,” James allowed, and Thomas smiled._

_“We won’t need British Naval support, at least not for long, and they can hardly object with the war on, or indeed after it when they will presumably need Naval support to clean up the mess. Think of it, James. It will start out as a British colony, yes, but it will finish up as something quite different - an example of the merits of good governance to be followed, and in time perhaps -” He looked around and lowered his voice, “- in time perhaps a free, independent republic like you always wanted.”_

_James stared at him. He wanted to argue - wanted to rage and scream and refuse to go along with the plan. Nassau had been so many things to him over the years. Exile. Prison. Home. The site of his greatest crimes, and yet -_

_And yet what Thomas proposed would be none of those things. The Nassau that he held forth in front of James’ eyes was a thriving port city - the place that James and Miranda had worked so hard to achieve, and had they not made an incredibly similar proposal to Peter Ashe once? Had they not dreamt of doing exactly this?_

_“James,” Thomas said more softly. He came forward around the desk to wrap one hand around James’ own, his blue eyes full of concern. “If you truly cannot support this plan - if it truly does sound like madness of the first order, or if you feel you cannot return to New Providence in this capacity, say it now. We will work it out some other way that will not - tempt you, into becoming who you were once again or force you to confront him in your memories. I won’t be the source of your pain, not again.”_

_The most difficult part of becoming James McGraw again, he was rapidly realizing, had nothing to do with his mannerisms. It had nothing to do with the way he walked, or the way he talked, or the clothing he wore. It was in moments like this, where he wanted so desperately to hold onto the hurts of a past life - to return to the rage and the heedless, stubborn, familiar recklessness that had enabled him to go through eleven years without putting a bullet through his head - in choosing instead to allow himself to move on and live._

_He closed his eyes for a moment. He was not certain he could do this. The prospect of it loomed before him, overwhelming in its immensity, and he felt his breathing quicken, his hands beginning to shake at the prospect. He clenched them, trying to control the reaction, to find equilibrium again before -_

_“James,” Thomas’ voice penetrated the fog of his thoughts. “Talk to me. Tell me why this worries you so.”_

_Before what, exactly? With a start, James opened his eyes. He could talk to Thomas. He did not have to keep this to himself - did not have to conceal anything from the man sitting across the table from him. He did not have to pretend - not here, not now. He breathed out shakily, gaze focused on Thomas._

_“You’re not alone,” Thomas reminded, and James nodded._

_“No,” he acknowledged. “I’m not.” He gave Thomas a half smile, which his lover returned. “I’m not concerned about Nassau,” he said at length. “Not solely, anyway. Neither Miranda or I have many good memories of the place, but you’ll be there this time, and with a little luck we can keep it from becoming the hell-hole that it was while we were living there. No. It’s -” He cast about, searching for the words. “I’ve been a pirate for the past ten years, Thomas,” he said at last. “And while my life in the Navy may have lasted longer than my exile, it didn’t end well. I’ve hated it for so long - fought against it, taken ships from it, heard the stories of men who were tortured in its service, or forced into in the first place. I can’t go back and ignore all of that. I can’t pretend that it’s not happening. Asking me to go back to serving -”_

_“Not serving,” Thomas emphasized. “You’ll be in charge of Naval operations in Nassau. All of them. You’ll be a great deal more than just a captain - you’ll be a garrison commander, with the right to interfere if you see injustices being perpetrated on ships that enter our waters. And with Peter overseeing the Admiralty court in Jamaica -”_

_“You truly trust him to do anything other than hang pirates?” James asked._

_“I trust him to be wary enough of me and of my allies here after this to do as I say for long enough to effect real change,” Thomas said._

_James sat, still mulling the idea over in his head. It sounded good, but then all of Thomas’ ideas tended to do that. Still, though - this particular idea sounded right. A new Nassau. A place where he, Thomas, and Miranda could be together, and one where he would not be expected to turn a blind eye to the goings on aboard Naval ships that came through their port. It was far from fixing everything that was wrong with England, but perhaps they could at least give refugees from England’s tyranny a place to go. Still -_

_“If it all goes to hell and I strangle Benjamin Hornigold on sight -” he started._

_“You won’t,” Thomas said firmly. “Besides, in the worst of all scenarios, we can always leg it for Paris.”_

_James snorted, and Thomas grinned._

_“Alright,” he agreed. “I’ll do it.”_

_“Excellent.”_

Thus, three weeks later, he had found himself here, in uniform, watching lords and ladies mill about the room like the pack of vultures he privately compared them to, wondering just what on Earth had possessed him to think that he could speak with the men and women that had turned their backs on Thomas so blithely and gone about their lives as if nothing had changed. Thus far he had narrowly avoided scandalizing three young women and had very possibly managed to shock one of the older men in the room, although he was not quite certain how. Perhaps it was his bearing - try as he might, he found that he could not quite seem to lose the trace of the pirate captain in the way he held himself and he suspected that the look on his face had much to do with the way that the few party-goers who had drifted his way intent on having a word had thought better of it, scattering like so many frightened cats. It was more than a little frightening to realize how much of Flint had become unconscious - to find that the mask had instead become the reality, from his scowl to his pessimism to the way he held his hands. James had had to remove his hand from his sword hilt more than once tonight after catching himself standing as if ready to do violence, as indeed he would have been had a large number of pirate captains ever agreed to meet like this, and the less said about his attempts not to fidget and pull at his collar like a small child, the better. 

“You know,” Thomas said from behind him, amusement in his voice, “if you stop standing there with a face like a thundercloud, you might actually be able to enjoy yourself.” 

He was scowling again. Thomas was right, he realized, and felt irritation well up in him. His face, it seemed, was not entirely on board with this attempt at a return to, if not polite society, at least basic civility.

“Damn it,” he muttered. 

“And stop swearing like a deckhand,” Thomas continued to tease, and James barely held back a groan. 

“How the hel - _devil_ am I going to make it through tonight without managing to get us all exiled?” he wondered aloud, and Thomas laughed. 

“You’ll be fine. You’re already doing better than you expected!”

“If by that you mean that I haven’t actually murdered anyone, then yes,” James answered sarcastically. “You see that man over there?” He gestured briefly in the direction of an older gentleman with an expression on his face that looked very much as if he’d been sucking on lemons the entire night.

“Lord Bremerton?” 

“I smiled and he looked as if the Devil himself had appeared and ran off. He’s stayed on that side of the room ever since.”

Thomas snickered, attempting to muffle his laughter at the aggrieved look that James shot him.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man when he wasn’t offended by something. It looks as though you’re the lucky miscreant tonight. Don’t worry about it, James. Lord Bremerton would be less than pleased one way or the other and at least this keeps him well away from the company worth talking to.” 

“At least you don’t appear to have lost your charm with the ladies,” Miranda offered from his other side. She held out a drink, which he accepted, only just remembering not to toss it back in one go as he would have a glass of rum. He snorted.

“If I didn’t remember to mind my manners around the women in the room, my grandmother would rise from her grave and box my ears,” he said dryly. “I can still hear her scolding me if I concentrate hard enough.” 

“A formidable lady?” Thomas asked, and James nodded.

“Remind me to tell you about her when this is over,” he said, and Thomas grinned.

“I shall look forward to it,” he answered. “Come with me. There are several people here who would very much like to meet you before I spirit you away to Nassau with me.”

James allowed himself to be escorted through the crowd, and thus it was that twenty minutes later, he once again found himself free, listening to the musicians play as he watched Thomas and Miranda circulate with a fond eye. Miranda looked a bit strained around the edges, he thought, and silently wondered if she found all of this as trying as he did. 

He had been surprised, at first, at the change in her.

_“I can’t bear it anymore, James,” she’d confessed one night, after Thomas had gone to sleep. They had once again elected to stay together for the night, as they had done as often as was feasible given the need to hide and maintain the pretense that James was still staying at his lodging house and not moved permanently into their house._

_“It’s a facade, all of it. I knew it before, of course, but I -” She made a helpless gesture with one hand. “I knew my place in the dance,” she finished at last. “Or at least I thought I did. I used to have so much patience for this sort of thing - the maneuvering - the lying, and now I -” She shook her head._

_“And now it seems like such a waste of time you can hardly breathe with the stupidity of it all,” James finished, and she nodded._

_“I feel like a blind person who’s suddenly gained the ability to see and discovered that all of his acquaintances look vastly different than he had imagined, despite fancying that he knew their faces through feeling them with his fingers,” she confessed. “How many other lords and ladies have I vastly underestimated or read entirely wrong before now? How often was I utterly wrong about someone?”_

_“There was no way you could have known about Ashe,” James offered quietly, and Miranda clenched her fist._

_“Peter,” she half hissed. “How could he? How could he do such a thing to us - to Thomas? How did I not know, James?”_

_“You couldn’t have -” James started, and Miranda shook her head, cutting him off._

_“It is my job to know,” she said sharply. “You and Thomas - you never paid much attention to the undercurrents. You didn’t have to - you had me there. I was meant to know what was happening - to keep you both from stumbling into situations like this, and I failed you. I failed you both, and I -”_

_“Miranda -” James started, and sighed. “You warned us,” he reminded her. “You tried to make us turn course, and we ignored you. If anyone’s to blame, it’s Thomas and I. You may not have known what direction the danger was coming from, but you tried to tell us. You can’t be held to blame for that.”_

_Miranda gave him a look, and he frowned._

_“It’s not just that, is it?” he asked, and she shook her head._

_“No. It’s not.” She took a deep breath, looking to the side as she did so, out over the rooftops of London below their window._

_“I loved this city, once,” she said. “I loved the people here. I loved our lives here. When we ran from London - when we moved to Nassau - I missed it terribly. And for all those years, I never quite gave up on the notion of returning to this, I suppose. Rescuing Abigail seemed like a last, shining chance - a sign that our exile was over. That I could come home.”_

_He did not speak the words on the tip of his tongue. Did not insult her by stating the obvious. The memory of that awful night in Peter Ashe’s dining room hung in the air between them, and he reached out to take her hand, silently rubbing his thumb across her knuckles waiting for her to regain the ability to speak._

_“I can’t do this, James,” she said at last. “I can’t turn a blind eye and pretend that I don’t hate every one of them. I can’t go back to being Lady Hamilton - not now. Once, perhaps, I might have, but now -” She took a deep breath. “I said I wanted to watch Charlestown burn. Imagine, then, how much more I want to do the same to London.”_

_“About as much as I did, once,” he answered, and she turned to him, with a strange look in her eyes, half pride and half haunting, desperate unhappiness._

_“When I - when I **left** you -” she started, and he shook his head._

_“No,” he interrupted. “Don’t dance around the truth, Miranda. You were murdered. Saying you left makes it sound as though it were voluntary. It wasn’t.”_

_“Very well. When I died, you were ready to give up. You’ve told me of what followed my death - what it drove you to. And yet the man I see before me -”_

_She raised a hand to touch his face, and he leaned into it, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smile._

_“You’ve changed,” she said. “I look at you and I see -” She trailed off, trying to quantify what she saw in James’ eyes. “I see the man I fell in love with, all those years ago,” she said finally. “What happened? How did you -?”_

_“How did I give up wanting to burn England for what it did?”_

_She nodded._

_“I didn’t,” he answered baldly. “I look at this place and I see the same corruption, the same blithe unconcern for the lives of others as you do. I’ve spent the past ten years railing against it - fighting it at every turn. Every time I cut off another head it seemed as though ten more grew in its place and the cutting off of each head cost me something in the end - something I couldn’t afford to lose. Not and still remain human. After you died -” He shook his head. “You’re not going to believe this but it took Silver to show me how much of myself I’d lost. How much I’d thrown away, and to start to reclaim some of it. I’d only just begun, and then -”_

_He gestured eloquently to the room around them as if to indicate their changed circumstances._

_“Finding myself back here, back in time -” He shook his head. “I don’t know how it’s possible. I suppose it’s conceivable that this is all a delusion of some kind, but if it is, I don’t intend to test it. Before - even if I had wanted to give up being Captain Flint, I couldn’t see a way to do it. I’ve done things I didn’t think could ever be made right, but now -” He stopped, looking for the words. “Now, it’s all undone, and I can’t - I don’t want to keep cutting pieces off my soul anymore. I’m done, Miranda. I can’t go back to being who I was - not for you, not for Thomas, not for anyone. I don’t know if any of that is helpful, but -”_

_She nodded._

_“It is,” she said quietly. “I - thank you.”_

It was not going to be enough - not on its own, James knew. Miranda was not as stubborn as he, but her anger ran no less deep, and she had been granted less outlet for it over the past decade. It would take her time, and yet he could not help but hope that she would not follow his example. He well knew the power of the rage that she was feeling, and he was pondering the practicality of giving her a physical outlet in the form of fencing lessons when a voice intruded on his thoughts.

“Might I have a word, _Captain_ McGraw?” 

The voice came from behind him, and James started. He had not seen or heard from Admiral Hennessey in over a decade and yet the sound of his voice still caused James to jump in his skin for all the world like the nine-year-old boy he had been when Hennessey had first taken him under his wing. He turned, and found the older man looking at him with one eyebrow raised, a look that was caught halfway between amusement and an almost paternal fondness on his face. (And oh God - James could not decide if he wanted to embrace him or punch him. The two urges were equally strong, equally born of both anger and joy, for here was yet another person James had never expected to see again this side of the grave, standing before him, unchanged and whole and how dare he be so after what he had done - would do? How dare he stand there, blameless and yet so very guilty, such that James could not even rail at him for his crimes? How _dared_ he?) 

No. He had done nothing wrong - nothing at all, thus far. The man that stood before him was not the one that had stood in his office and so effortlessly condemned James, destroying both his life and his spirit all in one fell blow. With an effort, James stuffed the anger away. He was done with vengeance. Had he not said so himself? 

“Admiral.” He could not quite bring himself to call the other man Sir. The word would not come, and he decided at the last minute to avoid it altogether if possible. The memory of the day his life had changed forever was still determined to haunt him, it seemed. Hennessey raised an eyebrow.

“Well. It seems you remember how to stand to attention, even if you’ve made yourself scarce of late. Good God, lad - what on Earth does Lord Hamilton have you doing?” 

_Fucking until I can hardly string together a coherent sentence,_ James wanted to say, wanted to rub it in Hennessey’s creased, care-worn face. It had been a wonderful three weeks that way - indeed, he, Thomas, and Miranda had spent more time in bed than he could recall ever doing before, despite the manufactured argument between Thomas and Miranda, “resolved” within the first three days by means of a very loud argument held in a hallway in full view of the servants that had ended in Miranda forgiving her husband for his supposed crime, the details of which James could not recall, as both Thomas and Miranda had spent the entire masterful performance trying not to grin at one another. James, for his part, had forgotten entirely what it felt like to be so utterly sated - to be touched with such affection, to feel Thomas’ and Miranda’s fingers running through his hair and then over the rest of his body, to be able to touch them in turn - and he was finding the sensation to be amazingly relaxing. 

Not so relaxing, though, as to make this encounter any more pleasant.

“I think it’s fairly obvious,” he said instead, making a gesture toward the room in all its splendor, thus encompassing the progress celebrated therein. Hennessey’s eyebrow raised even further if possible.

“Impertinence does not suit you,” he observed sourly, and James took a deep breath. He was not here to offend the Admiral. He was not here to recriminate, or to alienate someone they might one day need as an ally, no matter how he set James’ teeth on edge. 

“Apologies, Admiral,” he managed at last, and Hennessey nodded. 

“I must say,” he observed, “they’ve spared no expense for tonight.” 

“Thomas has been declared the Governor of New Providence and the surrounding islands,” James said, turning away, his eyes seeking his lover in the crowd. “He’s in no danger of falling into debt over any of this.” Hennessey’s presence at his back was a prickling, uncomfortable burden, and he suddenly found himself wishing for Thomas to turn around and come to join him, for Miranda to somehow sense his need for a buffer between him and the man he’d once thought of as a father and come to give Hennessey the verbal slapping she had often promised in Nassau. Anything rather than James having to stay here and face what was, in some ways, a worse betrayal than anything Alfred had done before he was entirely sure he was ready.

“Yes, it would seem his little scheme for the redemption of Nassau has gone over quite well, despite the odds.” There was an edge of - something, to Hennessey’s voice, something that James was tempted to call dissatisfaction. He turned back to face the older man, his heart sinking into his boots. There was no getting out of this, plainly.

“Is there a problem, Admiral?” he asked. Hennessey did not answer, instead looking him up and down. He frowned, and then motioned with one hand.

“Come,” he said. “Walk with me. I feel the need for some fresh air. These ladies and their perfumes will be the death of me one day.” He turned, heading toward the garden, and James followed reluctantly, a sinking sensation accompanying him on his way out of the ballroom.

*******************************************************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos still very much appreciated!


	6. Sins of the Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So - this chapter requires some headcanon explanations. I’ve made a post that you can find here explaining my weird theories re: Hennessey: 
> 
> http://flintsredhair.tumblr.com/post/151811259762/so-can-we-talk-about-admiral-hennessey-for-a

The Boy, Hennessey thought, had changed.

He could not quite pinpoint when the change had begun, although he had an idea. He was reasonably certain that it had started not long after he had been sent as the liaison to Lord Hamilton’s son - a certain something in James’ bearing that had been subtly altered. It was as if some of the awkwardness - some of the tension that had always accompanied his ward - had gone. He stood taller, seemed less uncertain of himself in some ways. Hennessey might have put it down to the increased responsibility. He had observed something similar in other young officers given their first truly important assignment - a certain arrogance that lent them confidence, and which Hennessey despised since it was almost always founded entirely upon perceived power rather than actual wisdom gained. What he now saw in James, though, he would not have called arrogance. The Boy remained as humble as he had ever been (which was to say that he had a sarcastic streak wide as a parade ground and a wicked sense of humor that had a habit of coming out at precisely the wrong moment but that he knew his station) and yet he no longer hesitated to offer his opinions - no longer acted as if he had no right to speak or to stand among men who were, in actuality, his peers, if not in social standing then certainly in rank. Hennessey applauded the change, privately, and yet he worried - worried that his charge was not only growing in confidence but in recklessness, a trait which he could ill-afford, either on a ship or on shore rubbing shoulders with the peerage, many of whom would have eaten him whole as soon as look at him. The conviction was only strengthened by the casual way in which James uttered Lord Hamilton’s Christian name, and the fondness with which his eyes followed the young Governor of New Providence around the room. It was part of the reason he had pulled him out to this exceedingly remote corner of the garden, in all truth, before anyone else could put two and two together and come up with the correct (and entirely inconvenient) sum of four.

His son in all but blood and law walked at his side, utterly silent. There was something new in that, too. There had been a time when the thought of disapproval from Hennessey would have sent James rushing to assure him, to placate. Now, though, he strolled through the garden, his jaw clenched, arms still held at parade rest, acceptably formal and yet quite obviously not jumping out of his skin with trepidation, either. Hennessey was not sure he approved of that particular change, but he was willing to chalk it up to James’ long familiarity with him rather than a general lack of respect for superior officers.

“I can still have you pulled off of this assignment, you know,” he said finally. “It is within my right.” He had stopped walking, finally, settling near a fountain. The June air had acquired a definite chill to it, he found, and ignored the urge to draw his coat tighter around him. He was trying for authority, not the appearance of an old man in need of a lap rug.

“If you do, it will offend Lord Hamilton, undermine confidence in the endeavor, and necessitate weeks or months of delay while you find a suitable replacement and brief him on the challenges he’ll face as the new commander of the garrison and military advisor to the new Governor,” James said calmly. He did not so much as bat an eyelash, and Hennessey paused, startled. It was, he thought, as if James had expected this - as if he had been preparing for it. He stared at the younger man’s face, looking for a trace of nervousness, and found none. The familiar features of the boy he had raised were set as if in stone, his brilliant green eyes staring at a point in the distance, not looking at Hennessey at all, and with a start, Hennessey abruptly realized that James was not calm. He was, in fact, the furthest thing from it, with his jaw clenched, his hands curled into half-fists behind his back, showing every sign of being on the very edge of control - and yet Hennessey could see no sign of it in his expression.

It was beyond startling. For all the years that Hennessey had known him, James had always been something of a powder keg. It was not, he thought, that his ward had no patience - on the contrary, he had a great deal of it, but just say the right words, introduce tension in the wrong place, and James became something else altogether, a wild thing Hennessey hardly recognized as the polite, considerate boy he had watched climb the ranks with such pride. This new James, the one standing here in the garden trying so extraordinarily hard not to speak his mind, not to blow up over some unknown injustice, was a stranger in that regard, and not one that Hennessey was certain he liked. He had preached restraint before, certainly, and yet to see it in action was - unsettling, somehow.

It would not do. If there was one person he did not want James to feel he had to restrain himself around, it was Hennessey himself.

“James,” he started, and then rethought, searching for words. “If there is something you would say to me -”

He trailed off, feeling irritation prickle. This was ridiculous - the entire exchange. He gave a huff of disgust, suddenly feeling the urge to throw something to the ground that went unanswered as his hands were entirely unoccupied and they were standing in the garden, making his hat a poor candidate. “Oh for - what the devil is the matter with you, boy? We’ve no quarrel between us that I’m aware of and yet you stand there looking as if I’ve spat in your morning oatmeal!”

James turned, and the look in his eyes was enough to bring Hennessey up short. There was anguish there, of a kind that he had never seen before, and towering anger. They were gone again in the blink of an eye as if they had never been, but Hennessey had seen them nonetheless. The anger was out of place but nothing new. The anguish, though, left him frowning, frightened by the intensity of what he saw in James’ eyes.

“Good God, son,” he murmured, coming closer to his ward. “What in the hell has happened to you?”

James started.

“I - nothing,” he tried, swallowing hard. “There’s nothing.”

“Horse manure,” Hennessey said succinctly. “Now, out with it. What in the name of -”

“You asked me to come out here for a reason,” James interrupted abruptly, turning away. “What did you wish to discuss?”

Hennessey stood, staring at his back in shock and not a little dismay. James - was shutting him out. Not dismissing him - he had not gone so far yet, but his posture bore all the hallmarks of a man all but boiling over with anger, and his tone was clipped, formal, as far from warm and friendly as it was possible to be, despite their having exchanged what Hennessey had thought to be a cordial, even warm parting just weeks before.

“If there’s nothing you wish to say, we should turn back,” James said. “The night’s getting cold.”

His tone was still polite and still unimpeachable, and yet Hennessey felt a sudden surge of anger rise in him. Very well. If James wanted to play things this way, he was quite capable of playing the same game.

“I wished to speak to you about your - liaison with Lord Hamilton,” he said, and James froze.

“You have concerns?” He did not turn back, but Hennessey could read the change in his mood in the tension that had suddenly gathered in his shoulders, and in the way his hands twitched where one cradled the other.

“You know them already,” Hennessey answered. “In the past month alone -”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” James interrupted him. “Perhaps you would like to be more specific, sir.”

“Don’t play innocent, lad!” Hennessey barked. “If it were anyone else, I would already have terminated your assignment and replaced you with someone willing to be less reckless, less selfish, more -”

“More willing to roll over and play at being normal?” James spat. He had turned around again, and taken a step closer to Hennessey, who stood his ground.

“More detached,” he finished sharply. “As it is, my trust in you -”

“Extends only as far as public ignorance of my preferences in bed, obviously!” James sneered. “Tell me - have I always been a monster to you, or was it only since you discovered?”

He was breathing hard, now, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and Hennessey gaped.

“For God’s sake, Boy - this isn’t about your... proclivities!” he managed at last. “Is that what you think?”

“Yes! Why the fuck else would you threaten to replace me as liaison?” James demanded, gesturing with one hand, and Hennessey restrained the surge of impatience that welled up within him.

“Do you truly think me so petty? Do you think I would have continued to protect you all these years if I believed you to be some kind of loathsome -”

A small, horrible sound escaped James’ mouth at that word, as if he had been stabbed and were trying to conceal it, and Hennessey stopped, confused and concerned at the same time.

“James -” he tried again. “Dear God, Boy - surely you know better?” His voice softened, and the look that flashed through James’ green eyes, full of suspicion and hurt, cut him to the quick. James shook his head, and Hennessey closed his eyes.

“Christ grant me strength,” he murmured. “James - look at me.” He placed a hand on either of his son’s arms, holding on tightly. “I am not customarily given to vulgarity but on this occasion it appears I must make myself plain. I truly do not give a good goddamn who you fuck. I never have.”

James started. For the first time that night, he looked Hennessey directly in the eye, his gaze full of shock and what Hennessey was ashamed to recognize as disbelief. Ye Gods, when had they come to this pass, where he spoke and James believed him to be lying?

“What?” James asked, his voice shaking. Hennessey sighed.

“I have spent my _life_ in the Navy, lad,” he said wearily. “You would hardly be the first officer under my command that held no particular reverence for the female form. I have known for years.”

James appeared to be undergoing some kind of struggle. Hennessey could see first surprise followed by skepticism and then outright anger pass over his face before he finally settled on a combination of all three.

“You expect me to believe that you truly don’t care?” James asked, and Hennessey nodded.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I haven’t the faintest idea where you’ve gotten hold of the notion that I _would,_ but -”

James let out a bark of laughter, short and sharp and mirthless.

“Where?” he asked. “From your own lips! And now you would deny it?”

“Yes!” Hennessey insisted. “And I would like to know what in God’s name has happened to make you so _wary_ of me! Have I given you cause to believe that I would betray you?”

James stared.

“More than you could possibly know,” he croaked, and Hennessey felt a dart of mixed horror and utter confusion run through him at the look in his ward’s eyes - one that he had not seen in many years, full of weariness and suspicion and a sort of buried, barely-extant hope that he had not seen since -

_November, 1682:_

_“You there! Boy!”_

_The flame-haired form of Hennessey’s youngest ship’s boy turned, and the lad’s eyes fixed on him._

_“Sir?”_

_“Hell’s bells, lad, what are you doing running around in this weather with no oilskin? Have you no sense?”_

_He looked up and down the boy’s rather scrawny form. He was, Hennessey realized, quite completely without protection of any kind, from his head to his feet, which he had jammed into a pair of boots that were entirely too small and had to be less than comfortable. His hair, and indeed the rest of him, were soaked, the brine of the sea clinging to him. They had entered this squall yesterday, and to Hennessey’s eyes, it appeared that James had been out in the worst of it, as indeed he probably had._

_“No sir,” the boy answered. “None at all. Need something, sir?”_

_The impertinence of the child!_

_“What I require,” Hennessey started, “is for you to stop running about like a monkey in this storm attempting to catch your death! Good God, child - where is your father?”_

_The lad winced, and Hennessey frowned._

_“What is it, boy?” he asked._

_“He’s dead, sir,” the lad answered. His answer was nearly eaten by the roar of the wind, but Hennessey heard it nonetheless. “Died in the last battle.”_

_Ah._

_“What’s your name?” he enquired._

_“James, sir. McGraw.”_

_It was Hennessey’s turn to wince, now. He remembered the carpenter’s mate now - Edward McGraw, a man he had served with for some years. He had somehow not connected the dead man to the urchin that was currently running about his ship, but was now left with the awkward realization that he had inadvertently put his foot squarely in it._

_“You have my condolences,” he said gruffly, and the boy nodded._

_“Thank you, sir.”_

_Another wave crashed over the side of the ship, hitting them both, and James shivered, his teeth clacking together in the cold._

_“God’s bones,” Hennessey muttered. It would not do - not aboard his ship. The boy couldn’t be more than eight, for Christ’s sake! Without another moment’s hesitation, he unfastened his own oilskin, and offered it to James._

_“Here. Put it on, before you freeze to death.”_

_James eyed the garment for a moment, round-eyed._

_“Sir -” he started, and Hennessey shook it at him._

_“That’s an order, lad. Saints!”_

_James reached out and took the garment, wrapping it around himself twice to make up for the excess length, and huddled in, burying his face in the treated cloth as if to cover all of himself at once._

_“There,” Hennessey said. “Can you feel your hands again?”_

_“Aye, sir.” The words came out slightly muffled, but still recognizably in a broad, west-country accent, and the boy flushed, embarrassment flashing over his face._

_“I mean - yes, Captain,” he corrected himself, raising his chin slightly. The accent smoothed away, replaced by a Londoner’s clipped vowels, and Hennessey blinked. Was that -?_

_“Are you a Cornishman by any chance, child?” he asked, and James shook his head._

_“No, sir! Irish, sir. Grew up in Padstow with my grandda.”_

_“I see,” Hennessey said. “I suppose you’ll be going back to him when this voyage is finished, then?”_

_James shook his head, a forlorn expression flashing over his face briefly._

_“No, sir. He’s - he’s dead too. Sir.”_

_Hennessey stared at the boy. It was a familiar story. The lad had no doubt gone to sea with his father, hoping to learn the man’s trade as a means of making a living. He was small for an apprentice, but no worse than some of the boys Hennessey had seen running errands in London. Edward McGraw had no doubt thought nothing of it until they’d gone into battle not two months earlier and he’d been blown away, doing as Hennessey had ordered, leaving young James to fend for himself. Looking at the lad now, Hennessey was once again struck by the cruelty of the entire situation. Nine. The lad was all of eight or nine, and here he stood, aboard a ship full of men, with no relatives to return to, and nothing more to his name than the clothes on his back, cold and shivering and quite obviously as hungry as any other common tar aboard the ship. Even if he could return to Padstow, he would hardly be in any position to fend for himself. The ship offered some hope of advancement, or at least protection - until the first time that someone took a fancy to him or there was an accident in the galley or he was volunteered for a powder monkey and blown to bits, and looking at the boy’s small, rain-soaked form, Hennessey suddenly found he could not bear the thought. This had happened as a result of his orders. It was up to him to rectify it._

_“Well,” he said, almost before his mind knew what his mouth was about to say. “I suppose that makes you my responsibility, doesn’t it?”_

_“Sir?” The lad was frowning, the expression unnervingly serious for one so young. One side of Hennessey’s mouth quirked upward, and he rubbed both hands up and down his arms, attempting to rub some warmth back into both._

_“You have fallen into a good bit of luck for once, James,” Hennessey offered. “I’ve need of an assistant. You can start your duties by fetching me some coffee and then we’ll talk of other assignments while we both get out of this weather.”_

_James gave him a look, equal parts disbelief, shock, and a sort of weary suspicion that absolutely did not belong on a boy his age._

_“Truly, sir?” he asked, and Hennessey nodded._

_“Aye,” he answered. “Come along. We Irishmen must stick together.”_

June, 1705:

“James,” Hennessey said softly. “Son -”

James shook his head.

“No,” he insisted. “Don’t. Don’t use that word unless you mean it. I can’t -”

Hennessey shook his head.

“Stubborn boy,” he murmured, fondness taking the edge off of the words. “You’ll hear everything from everyone except words of endearment, which seem to send you running for the hills.”

James frowned, and Hennessey sighed.

“James,” he said at last, “I am not a young man. I know you’ve always suspected it to be true but of late it has become obvious even to me. I have no wife. No great estate, no title. I have nothing to be proud of, save my career - and you. Why on God’s green Earth would I wish to ruin one of the few things I’ve done right by putting my blinders on and turning to religion to ease my woes at this late date?”

The garden was still so quiet, Hennessey thought. He could hear the music emanating from an open door in the distance, and the sounds of laughter coming from that direction, but most of all, he could hear James’ breathing, ragged and short. He stood, stock still, regarding Hennessey, his eyes still a maelstrom of conflicting emotions.

“I -” he started, and Hennessey waited, wondering what on Earth James was about to say that could possibly explain where in the blazes this had come from. “If you don’t care about my - my relationship with Thomas, then why -?”

“James -”

CRASH!

Hennessey turned, the words he had been about to speak forgotten entirely. The horrifying sound had come from the direction of the palace. Shouts sounded from the same direction, and Hennessey saw James go white as a sheet, his green eyes tracking the source of the noise.

“Thomas,” he whispered. “Miranda!”

“Come on,” Hennessey said, and they moved in unison back toward the house, running as fast as their legs would take them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, as your fun history fact for the chapter: James as a ship’s boy is a little young. The minimum age for an officer’s servant at the time was eleven, but people often skirted around that by having children come aboard, as in James’ case, as apprentices to someone like Edward McGraw, who was a carpenter’s mate. If James’ grandparents died at the same time, that would have left his father with very little other recourse, since presumably his mother had already died sometime since. For the Navy’s purposes, Hennessey would have had to lie and claim that James was two years older than his actual age to keep him on. On the plus side, serving an officer as a servant meant a chance at advancement to a midshipman’s rank eventually instead of a life on the streets and probably eventual imprisonment in a workhouse or jail, which is where he would have been headed in all likelihood had Hennessey not stepped in.
> 
> I adore comments and kudos as much as the next poor starving writer if not more!


	7. A Murder Is Announced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after a brief bout of wrestling with the plot for this fic, I am happy to say that I've gotten things worked out and can continue forward knowing who's doing what and why. In celebration - here's Chapter 7! in which there begins to be a plot.

_Half an hour earlier:_

The wealth on display in this room could have fed, clothed, and defended Nassau for centuries.

She had not wanted to be here tonight. She had known what she was getting herself into from the moment that she stepped into their carriage, with her shawl tucked into the crooks of her arms and her gloves - unfamiliar after so many years and so incredibly _irritating_ \- pulled on. On the way there, she had tried valiantly not to calculate in her head exactly what the mantua she wore tonight would fetch and for how many months such a sum could have kept her, James, and all her livestock in food and comfort. She did her level best to ignore such considerations - to simply relax and enjoy her return to society, however brief - and yet she had found that all she could think of was the utter, untenable, unbearable waste on display. She had not anticipated this aspect of her return to London and with it the life of a noblewoman that she had once enjoyed so very much. She had forgotten, or perhaps never realized, exactly how very far she had fallen from this exalted company, and it was a shock to realize that she was no longer like them - no longer Lady Hamilton, socialite, turned instead into something so far removed from this group of avaricious, backstabbing, heartless fools that she felt herself grow ill at the thought of joining them. She needed to get away from them - all of them, and she found herself seriously considering her chances of slipping away unnoticed before the nausea she felt at this display of unchecked, over-privileged decadence overwhelmed her entirely.

“Miranda? Are you alright?” 

The voice came from Miranda’s left, and she turned to find her husband standing there, his tall form at her side the one pleasant aspect about this gathering save for James’ presence, which she only now noticed was missing.

“James has gone to the garden with the Admiral,” Thomas said, reading her mind the way he often did, and she felt some of her irritation dissipate, overtaken by a sort of fond warmth that welled up in her at his words.

She had missed him. The statement was accurate, but inadequate as a description for the aching loneliness that had overwhelmed her so many times in her exile - the longing to hear his voice, to have him present to anticipate her thoughts and make her laugh again the way he used to at dull affairs such as this one. She had missed his wit, and his intelligence, and his willingness to follow her lead when he did not know how to handle something himself almost as much as she had missed his presence in her bed and his effortless ability to charm those around him with his genuine conviction and desire to do good. For a moment, she allowed herself to simply look at him, drinking in his presence. She had worried, when she had first woken to find herself a decade in the past, that this would have changed - that she would find that she no longer fit, that her husband’s sense of humor would no longer amuse her, or vice versa, or that they would simply no longer understand one another. It was a blessed relief to find that for all their new-found differences, he still understood the pattern of her thoughts, the direction her mind turned - that she had not become a stranger to him seemingly overnight, leaving him to cast about for the traces of the woman he had married. 

“I could become quite spoiled, having you look at me that way,” he murmured, and she smiled.

“I could become spoiled looking at you.” It had been nearly a month, and still she could not help staring at her husband this way, a positively silly grin on her face. He had not, bless him, teased either her or James about it, although he could not possibly have understood the sheer relief that still washed over both of them every time he entered the room or otherwise made his presence known. They would, perhaps, begin to behave more normally around him given time to readjust, but for now, he tolerated it with good grace and a trace of fond amusement from time to time. 

“Did the Admiral seem to be in a good mood?” she asked, and Thomas nodded.

“Good enough,” he answered, “as well he should be. The man can scarcely complain about his protegé being promoted!” 

“The Admiral’s reaction is not the one that concerns me,” she murmured, and Thomas frowned.

“It’s been eleven years,” he murmured. “Surely by now -?” 

She shook her head.

“I don’t think he ever quite got over it,” she answered. “Being called a monster - being humiliated in such a fashion -” She shook her head. “It hurt him so very badly, Thomas - the injustice of it. And trying to argue with him about it - to convince him that the entire world was wrong when it called him such awful things -” She shook her head again, and Thomas’ frown deepened. He looked toward the garden as if considering whether to go out after James, his brow furrowing. 

“If Hennessey says anything of the kind to James tonight -” he began, and she shook her head. 

“I don’t believe he will,” she admitted. “I only hope that James can contain himself.” 

“They haven’t shouted the house down yet,” he put forward hopefully, and she could not quite help the small smile that worked its way onto her face. 

“No,” she agreed. She looked around the room and could not help grimacing. Thomas, seeing the expression, gave her a concerned look.

“Is everything alright, dear?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“Look at them, Thomas,” she invited. He turned, surprise flashing across his face. “What do you see?” 

“I see that Lady Montagu and Lord Spencer have finally stopped pretending that they’re not having an affair,” he answered. “I see that the Earl of Berkshire has somehow managed to attend despite being approximately as ancient as the building itself. His son must have done something embarrassing again. I see -”

Miranda shook her head.

“No,” she said. “Look at them, truly.”

Thomas looked again, and then looked back at her, clearly baffled.

“A clue, my love?” he asked, and Miranda sighed.

“Their clothing, Thomas. They’re each wearing the contents of a very small treasury room and they think nothing of it. When I think of how people live in Nassau - how people live here, in London - of how their lives could be bettered immeasurably and see - _this_ -” She trailed off, gesturing frustratedly to the room, and Thomas looked again, his eyes darting from person to person in sudden comprehension. 

“Ah,” he said. He looked suddenly thoughtful, and his gaze darted around the room again, taking in what Miranda was seeing. It was a talent of his - that ability to lay aside his preconceptions and view things from another perspective, and it was yet another thing that Miranda treasured about him. “It is rather much, isn’t it?” he admitted, and she snorted.

“To put it mildly,” she said. “The Duchess of Marlborough’s mantua alone could fetch a thousand pounds. Men have killed for far less.” 

“You’ve developed quite an eye for such things,” Thomas said admiringly, and Miranda shrugged.

“I’ve had to,” she answered. “One never truly realizes how much it can cost to live until one finds oneself attempting to fix one’s shoes for the third time because doing so allows one to eat that week.” She said it lightly, but Thomas still stood, giving her a look of purest horror, and she waved a hand. “It’s not important,” she murmured, and he shook his head.

“No,” he argued. “It is. My God, Miranda -” 

“Don’t,” she cut him off. “Please. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it?” Thomas asked, and she shook her head. 

“No,” she answered. “Please, Thomas, I -” She stopped and took a deep breath. The anger that welled in her was old - well-worn and familiar, and after the past few weeks it was almost a relief - almost, in that it was not the wild, burning hatred she felt for Peter, for Alfred, for the civilized world, and yet it was still anger, and she was not reckless or heedless enough to believe it anything other than a temptation to that other, worse emotion. 

“Please,” she repeated, and Thomas seemed to recognize what she could not say. He nodded, backing down, a troubled look on his face. 

“I shall need your aid, you realize,” he said quietly, at last. “When we reach Nassau, that is. I want you to be in charge of our finances.”

The sentence served its intended purpose. Miranda felt her attention drawn, surprise mixed with a small thrill of pleasure running through her at her husband’s words. To be needed - to play an active part in their futures - 

Well. It would at least provide her with something to do with her days that was not farming, and the thought was a welcome one. 

“A _female_ chancellor of the exchequer?” she asked, one eyebrow arched and a smile playing around her lips. “The scandal!” The words brought a smile to his face, one that he quickly attempted to cover with one hand. 

“I’m serious,” he said. “Scandal or not. I want this to work, Miranda. I want Nassau to be a place where men and women can be truly free to live their lives as they choose, not some miniature England. I want -” He looked at her again and smiled. “Well. You’ve heard me say it a hundred times, no doubt.”

“Two hundred, if you count both lives,” Miranda said lightly. “And speaking of the Duchess of Marlborough -”

“Were we?”

“Yes. I’m surprised she’s come. I hadn’t expected anyone quite so exalted to appear.”

“She appears to be having a grand good time talking with Lord Godolphin and - who is that with them?” 

Miranda frowned. 

“I’m not sure,” she said slowly. The woman Thomas referred to was of average height, with nondescript features, and Miranda had never seen her before, or at least if she had she had forgotten her. She did not look like the sort to be associating with some of the foremost peers of the realm, and yet there she stood, a polite smile affixed to her face, apparently listening detachedly to whatever the Duchess was saying. There was something in her bearing - something that sent an alarm bell ringing and Miranda’s finely-honed danger sense tingling. She turned back to Thomas.

“Thomas,” she said carefully. “I think I will go after James. Will you come with me?” 

“Of course,” he returned, somewhat startled. “Miranda, what -?” 

“Call it a feeling,” she returned. “I think we may wish to retire home. Quickly.”  
*******************************************  
“Do you believe he’ll succeed?” 

The question came from Lord Godolphin. The lady he addressed turned to regard him with a raised eyebrow, her aristocratic and well-known features arranged into an artful display of nonchalance.

“Well, he certainly seems to be determined to give it a go!” she answered. 

“Yes, but do you think he’ll actually manage it?”

“My dear Sidney - he has already toppled one of the most powerful men in the nation. I think that young Lord Hamilton is likely to accomplish most anything he sets out to do, provided someone doesn’t kill him first.” 

“That should be a great deal easier for him to avoid after tonight,” Godolphin said idly, and the Duchess’ eyes narrowed. 

“It’s done, then?” 

The woman standing beside them nodded.

“Yes, your Grace.” 

A smile, fleeting but definitely present, flitted across the Duchess’ face, and she nodded her head in the other woman’s direction. 

“Excellent.” 

“Poor Alfred,” Godolphin lamented, and the Duchess huffed.

“The man was a lecher and an opportunist of the worst kind. Pity his poor brothers, if you must pity anyone, and his unfortunate children. I shan’t miss him.” 

“I thought he had only one son?” 

The Duchess raised an eyebrow.

“Really, Sidney!” she scolded. “Do you know nothing of the man?” 

“Anything more personal than nodding across the Assembly floor is entirely too much for me,” Godolphin answered. “The man was a wretched spider.”

“And you a poor fly inadvertently snared in his web,” the Duchess answered, her voice mocking. “Poor Sidney.”  
**********************************************************  
He had somehow managed to get lost again.

It was a curse, Thomas thought. He would no doubt have been fine but for getting caught by Lady Lennox, who was of sufficiently high standing that he had not dared refuse to speak with her, given that her father the Duke still held the title of Lord High Admiral of Scotland. Thus, he had quite lost track of Miranda, and now stood, looking about himself, utterly perplexed as to where his wife could have disappeared to. 

“She did say the garden,” he murmured. “If I were James and Miranda, where would I -”

The crash that sounded was nearby - so nearby, in fact, that Thomas jumped, looking about for the heavy object that had just fallen to the floor.

“Miranda?” 

He turned, voice raised in alarm now, his wife’s words coming back to him. She had been correct, he realized, and tried to quell the fear that welled up in him abruptly, sharp and strong. 

“Miranda?” He turned again, and heard someone breathing heavily and fast, as if afraid or -

He rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks, eyes riveted on the body lying on the ground.

“Dear God,” he murmured, and raised his eyes to find his wife standing close by, her eyes equally fixed on the still, silent form of Thomas’ father. 

Yes. Yes, they definitely should have left.  
**************************************************

“You were speaking of his children,” Godolphin said sourly, and the Duchess smiled.

“Yes. Lord Thomas - gracious, it will be Lord Thomas Hamilton, Fifth Earl of Ashbourne soon, won’t it? In any case, he is not an only child. No - Alfred had two bastards, both boys. I’ve never met either but I’m told the older one has taken up a life in the army.” 

“Two? Good God. You’re telling me that more than one poor woman agreed to bed _that?_ ” 

“There’s no accounting for taste,” the Duchess answered archly. 

“And has either of them -”

The crash, when it came, was quite startling - enough so that it ended all chatter, rendering the ballroom temporarily silent. It did not last long, though; there was a growing commotion coming from the doorway to the garden, and they turned toward it, the Duchess’s brows furrowing. 

“What on Earth -?” she started. 

“The Earl! The Earl of Ashbourne! He’s dead!” The shout came from outside, and she turned back to the woman at her right, who had gone quite pale.

“Madeleine,” she murmured. “You are quite certain you used enough?” 

The other woman’s eyes widened.

“Yes, your Grace,” she answered. “It should have been enough to kill a horse, let alone -”

“Oh my dear,” the Duchess sighed. “You should have known. The damned whoreson was always more of the feline persuasion.” 

“Your Grace?” 

“Nine lives and stubborn as they come,” she sighed. “Come along. It would seem your work is done, regardless, and I have no desire to be trapped here all night.”  
****************************************************  
It was odd, Miranda thought, how quickly things could change. 

She stood, staring down at her father-in-law’s body, a sort of detached, numb feeling spreading through her, and wondered idly whether there were any version of reality in which Alfred Hamilton survived. Whether, in some alternate universe, they had the sort of loving family relationship that some women seemed to have with their husbands’ parents. Looking at his contorted face and the shattered statue that lay nearby, pulled to the ground in Alfred’s last, dying attempt to hold himself up, somehow, she rather doubted it.

“Miranda? Are you alright? Miranda?” Thomas’ voice sounded behind her, frantic with worry. “What happened?” She could not speak - could not answer him, and he lowered his voice, his tone more gentle when he spoke next.

“Miranda?” 

She turned to him, and she could see the moment that he understood what had happened - the moment he saw the knife in Alfred’s hand and the slight wrent in the sleeve of her gown that were the only proof that his father had attempted to murder her just moments before.

“I’m fine,” she said through numb lips. “Thomas -” 

He reached forward, gathering her into his arms. 

“It’s alright,” he murmured, staring down at the inert form of Alfred Hamilton. “It’s alright.”  
***********************************  
It was two in the morning before they returned home.

Thomas still bore a look of shock on his pale, drawn face, and James looked little better, seemingly stunned at the night’s events. They stumbled in through the door ahead of Miranda without the slightest pretence, Thomas retaining just enough wits to tell the shocked Davies that the servants were to wear mourning attire when they rose from their beds. They trooped up the stairs in utter silence, and closed the door to their bedroom behind them with a final, decisive thump. They looked at each other with a sort of numbed horror.

“Miranda - are you alright?” Thomas was the first to speak, his voice quiet and hoarse with fatigue and grief. She nodded silently, staring at the floor rather than him, and he placed one hand against her cheek, silently asking for confirmation with his eyes.

“I’m fine,” she answered finally. She was - physically, at least, although her mantua would likely have disagreed had it been able to speak, not that she particularly cared. “And you?” Thomas shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he answered. He went slowly, wearily to the table in the corner, plucking his wig off his head and letting it drop onto its stand, and then ran a hand over his hair with rather less energy than usual, the motions mechanical, his hand stopping at the back of his neck. He did not turn around, staring instead at the mirror above the table. “Do you - do you think he suffered?” The words were barely more than a whisper, but they sounded rather like a thunderclap to Miranda’s ears. She looked to James only to find the same look of resignation and guilt and bone-deep weariness that she felt in his eyes as well. 

“Thomas -” James started, and then sighed. “He came all the way to Whitehall with the apparent intent of murdering you. Do you -” 

“You don’t know that!” Thomas cut him off vehemently, turning to face him fully. “You can’t possibly -”

“He had a knife in his hand, and the only reason he didn’t bury it in one of us is that his heart finally did the decent thing and gave out before he could do so!” James snapped. “I do know it, all too well!” 

“James!” Miranda hissed. Thomas’ face crumpled, and she saw the flash of realization and of guilt that traveled over James’ face at the look of utter devastation on his lover’s face. 

“Thomas -” he started, reaching for Thomas’ neck and then sighed, his arms dropping to his sides again. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I shouldn’t have -” He scrubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologized again. Thomas stood, searching his face, and then finally, slowly, he nodded

“Alright,” he acknowledged. “I - I don’t mean to be - it’s just - he was-” He stopped, swallowing hard, his voice starting to shake, to catch, and Miranda came forward, placing a hand on her husband’s arm. 

“He was your father,” she acknowledged softly, and heard a small sound escape Thomas’ mouth - not quite a whimper, but still too akin to the noise a wounded animal might make for comfort. He closed his eyes, tears leaking from their corners, and this time both James and Miranda reached forward, gathering him into a hug while he wept, sobs shaking his tall frame. He clung to them, one hand gripping James’ shirt and the other on Miranda’s back, his head buried against their shoulders, and they remained that way for quite some time, not moving even after Thomas had ceased to cry.

“He was always such a miserable bastard, but I never wanted him dead,” Thomas murmured after a while. “It’s my fault. You said, where you came from, he didn’t -”

“You couldn’t have known,” James told him quietly. “Thomas - you didn’t set out to cause this.”

Thomas laughed hollowly.

“Has that stopped you from berating yourself about your crimes?” he asked, and James flinched.

“No,” he admitted. He pulled away a step, his arms lowering again, and Thomas reached for him again, his eyes’ seeking James’ guilt-ridden ones.

“James - I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I had no right to say that to you.”

“You’re tired and grieving,” James started, and Thomas shook his head.

“No. That doesn’t give me the right to say things like that. I’m sorry.” James met his gaze for another moment and then nodded silently, visibly relaxing at the contrition in Thomas’ voice. He came closer, accepting the kiss that Thomas laid on his brow. “Dead and still determined to come between us,” Thomas murmured, and James gave a huff of laughter. Miranda, on the other hand, pulled back slightly, an odd expression flitting over her face.

“Darling? What is it?” Thomas asked, and she stood, mouth open ever so slightly, looking at him with sudden realization.

“He’s dead,” she repeated, and Thomas flinched. 

“Yes. I -”

“No,” she interrupted. “I meant - you’re safe. He can’t -” She stopped, searching for the words, “-take you from us again,” she settled for finally. “He can’t come and take you away from me. It’s finally -” She stopped again, tears forming in her eyes, and finally she reached forward and wrapped her hand around the back of her husband’s neck, bringing him to her for a kiss, not a long, slow, loving one but a hard, fierce thing that took him by surprise. “You’re safe,” she repeated, and he gave a slight huff of breath at the realization of what she was trying to say. 

“You’ve been afraid it would happen again,” he said, and she nodded wordlessly.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “I didn’t _want_ to think it, but I couldn’t help it. Every morning I would wake up and wonder if today it would happen all over again but now -” She stopped.

“Now it’s over,” Thomas finished softly. “Miranda -” He reached forward to touch her face, one thumb moving to wipe away the tears gathering in her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m sorry if I have been distant. I couldn’t face it again. I couldn’t -” Her voice shook, and Thomas pulled her forward into an embrace, wrapping both arms around her and holding on as she wept. After a moment he moved them to the bed, sitting down slowly and allowing Miranda to weep into one shoulder even as he motioned for James, who sat down next to them, wrapping his right arm around Miranda’s back to rub up and down.

“It’s alright,” Thomas soothed. “I’m here. I’m not leaving. It won’t happen - not ever again. We’re safe. It’s over.”  
*************************************  
Windsor: 

“My lord - the Earl of Ashbourne is dead.” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you intend -?”

“Yes. Ashbourne may have outlived his usefulness, but his meddling son will serve just as well. Speak with Mr. Finley. I would like to have a word with his young lordship.” 

“Very good, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos loved, appreciated, and used as fuel to keep writing!


	8. Things That Go Bump

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, friends, Romans, countrymen. Chapter 10's not done yet, but Chapter 9 fought me so hard that I feel like I deserve to post this and work on Chapter 10 when I'm not falling down tired. Here it is! And Silver finally shows his face!

Something was wrong.

He could not quite place it, but he knew it immediately upon waking. Thomas’ eyes opened, and he sat up in bed, shaking his head to clear it. Something was out of place - a sound, or a smell or - 

Or James, he realized, looking around. That was what had woken him - the lack of James’ now familiar weight in the bed next to him. The bed had not yet started to cool, despite his absence, so he could not have been gone long, and yet he was most definitely missing. Thomas shifted himself toward the edge of the bed and, grimacing at the cold floor against his feet, reached for a robe, his hands groping in the pre-dawn light. It was still dark, and he wondered with a dart of worry whether James had gotten any sleep at all, given the apparently still-early hour. If, he thought somewhat irritably, his wife had not smashed the hall clock, he might have told the time, and then repented the thought immediately. He would not have wanted to have the wretched thing in the house anyway - not when it would have caused both his lovers such pain to see it day in and day out and be reminded of Peter Ashe’s betrayal.

Still. He made a mental note to have the timepiece replaced with something suitably different so as to cease relying so heavily on James’ admittedly sterling sense of the time of day. His lover claimed it came from his early days in the Navy keeping watch at all hours of the day and night. Thomas was forced to accept the explanation if only because he knew that James did not possess a pocket watch - something which, he reminded himself, he would also need to purchase before they left London permanently so that he could gift it to James at Christmas. Certainly it would aid him in moments like this one, when he appeared to have lost track of time entirely and strayed from bed at an hour when all sensible people ought to have been deep in the arms of Morpheus, including Thomas. 

And speaking of James - 

Thomas opened the door to the library almost silently to find precisely what he expected awaiting him on the other side. He had found, in the months since he and James had become a pair, that his lover was, in some ways, one of the most predictable men on the face of the Earth, as predictable in his way as the Sun or the Moon. It was a simple calculation - the sun would always rise in the morning, church bells were always rung on Sundays, and James McGraw would always be found in Thomas’ and Miranda’s library when he had a problem to contemplate. 

“James?” 

His lover turned, startled, at the sound of Thomas’ voice.

“Thomas. What are you doing down here?” 

“You were gone, so naturally I came looking,” Thomas explained, and saw the look of chagrin on James’ face.

“I’m sorry. You should go back to bed. I’m fine.” 

“You’re awake at an ungodly hour of the morning and standing in the library contemplating the shelves in the dark. In what way does that resemble being fine?” 

James opened his mouth. He was going to argue - Thomas could see it in the set of his shoulders, in the beginnings of a frown forming in the creases between his brow. He could see, too, the moment that James recalled where he was - who he was about to argue with, and just how unnecessary that argument was. He was getting better about that, Thomas had noticed, and felt an odd surge of pride in his lover’s progress toward giving himself permission to be vulnerable now and again. 

“It doesn’t,” James admitted. He gave Thomas a wry look, and sat down heavily in one of the chairs. He had gotten dressed, Thomas realized for the first time, at least partially. Had he been less tired from the day’s events, less strung out from grief, he might have taken a moment to appreciate the sight of James in breeches and white shirt. As it was, he simply sat down next to his lover, setting down the lamp he had been carrying on the table next to the chaise longue. 

“I talked with Admiral Hennessey tonight,” James said without preamble. His voice was steady, but his hands twitched, his fingers drumming against his thigh in agitation. 

“I remember,” Thomas answered. “He told you to take Miranda and I home.” Thomas thought back on the encounter briefly. The Admiral had not seemed angry - on the contrary, he had seemed as shocked as anyone, and had quickly suspended whatever discussion he and James had been having. 

_“Take them out of here,” he had instructed gruffly. “Our conversation can wait.” He had looked between James and Thomas with an odd, almost resigned expression, and then shaken his head. “Good God Almighty,” he had muttered. “Go. There is nothing more to be done here tonight.”_

“He -” James started, and then ran a hand over his face, his frustration clear. “He knows,” he burst out finally. “He knows about the two of us - about our relationship.” 

Thomas started.

“You told him?” 

James shook his head.

“I didn’t have to,” he answered. “He figured it out on his own, somehow. He _knows,_ and he -” He rose again, pacing the length of the room, and leaned forward, his arms holding him up against a table.

“We would not still be sitting here if you considered him a threat,” Thomas reasoned, and James shook his head.

“I don’t know _what_ to consider him,” he admitted. He turned back, and Thomas patted the chaise, inviting him to return. He sat again, accepting the hand that Thomas placed on his thigh. “I remember it like it was yesterday, Thomas,” he said lowly. “The man all but lured me into his office, called what’s between us loathsome and profane, and now he -” He stopped, looking at Thomas with a lost expression. “He says he doesn’t care,” he finished, plainly bewildered. “He actually said he doesn’t give a shit who I’m fucking, and yet -” 

“He used those exact words?” Thomas asked incredulously, and James nodded mutely. Thomas sat back, beyond shocked. “He truly said that?” James nodded again.

“All these years,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, “I thought he hated me. That I had disappointed him beyond his capacity to bear - that he saw me as some sort of _abomination,_ and now I don’t know whether to get us all out of London on the next boat or -” 

“Or take the man at his word and stay?” Thomas asked quietly, and James nodded heavily. He ran a shaking hand over his face and took a deep breath, letting it out in a gust of air that threatened to blow out the flame on the lamp. 

“I can’t trust myself on this,” he confessed. “I know what Captain Flint would have done - what my instincts are telling me to do now, and I know what the sane, sensible thing is. By all rights, we should be doing it right now, but -” 

“What would Captain Flint do?” Thomas asked, his eyes firmly fixed on James’ green ones.

“Run,” he answered without hesitation. “Assume that Hennessey’s lying and -” He stopped, visibly swallowing the last half of his sentence. 

“And what?” Thomas asked gently, and James hesitated. He opened his mouth and then closed it, swallowing hard. 

“And run as fast and as far as possible and pray not to get caught halfway out of the harbor.” It was not what he had intended to say - Thomas could see it in his face, in the way that his mouth turned downwards, and in the tense little furrow between his brows.

“James -” he started, and James turned, anguish flashing over his face, his hands clenched in his lap.

“What do you want me to say, Thomas?” he snapped. “What the hell -” 

“I want you to tell me the truth,” Thomas answered. “We agreed not to lie to one another - not about this, remember?” His tone was rather sharper than usual, and he saw it cut - saw the agony that suffused James’ face for a moment. 

“The truth,” he repeated, his voice ragged with emotion. “You want to know -” He stopped, standing and dragging a hand over his hair. “Christ, Thomas!” he groaned. “What the _hell_ do you think I would have done?” 

“You are the only one who knows that,” Thomas answered quietly. He did not rise, and James stared at him for a moment. 

“You think -” he started, and shook his head. “Christ,” he murmured. “You do. You think there’s a chance that I would have spared him. That I -”

“I think you were not - that you _are_ not - the monster you insist you are,” Thomas murmured. “James -”

“I would have killed him!” James all but shouted the words, his voice rising above the quiet volume they had been using up until now. “I would have killed him - would have done the unforgivable, again, and he didn’t even -” He stopped, his voice catching in his throat. “I would have killed him,” he choked. “My God, Thomas. He - it wasn’t what I imagined it to be at all. What if I had - _Christ,_ what if I had done it?” He turned haunted eyes to Thomas. “What kind of fucking monster -” His voice cracked, and Thomas stood, silently gathering him into an embrace and allowing him to weep into his shoulder. 

“I never gave it so much as a moment’s thought - the _why_ of it,” James confessed at last, when his shoulders had stopped shaking and the tears had stopped running down his cheeks. “The man raised me from nothing - gave me a future when I had none. I owe him everything, and I - I assumed that he hated me. That I was -”

“You felt betrayed, and quite rightly so,” Thomas said quietly. “He gave you no reason to believe otherwise.” 

“There was no warning,” James said wearily, sitting down again. “That was the worst of it. One moment he was talking to me, calling me son, and the next -” He shook his head. “What if this is the same?”

“What if it isn’t?” Thomas countered, sitting down next to him, and James shook his head. 

“I _cannot_ take that chance,” he murmured. “I know what he said. I know what I want to believe, but I won’t risk your safety and Miranda’s on some - _deluded_ wish on my part to rewrite what I know to be true. I can’t -” He shook his head, and Thomas reached out, his hand gripping the top of James’ arm in support.

“James,” he said firmly, “look at me.” James obeyed, turning conflicted, tormented green eyes on Thomas. “You are not a bodyguard,” Thomas said quietly. “Miranda and I do not need to be protected from the world. This has tormented you for eleven years - no, don’t deny it, Miranda has told me as much. If there is a chance at reconciliation - at rebuilding what you had -” 

He stopped, his own words hitting too close to home. He envied James - he always had, in truth. The man may have come from nothing, but he had a father figure in Hennessey - someone to look up to and ask advice from, someone who, while he may have had his faults, apparently loved James as a son, while Thomas - 

He swallowed hard.

“ _Still, we will let all this be a thing of the past, though it hurts us, and beat down by constraint the anger that rises inside us. Now I am making an end of my anger. It does not become me, unrelentingly to rage on,_ ” he quoted, and James started, an odd expression flickering over his face.

“Homer,” he croaked, and Thomas nodded.

“Yes. Take the chance you have been offered, James, and trust that Miranda and I can protect ourselves, whatever the outcome may be.”

“Thomas -” James started, at a loss for words, and then he reached forward, grasping hold of the back of Thomas’ neck, his hands warm in contrast with the cool night air. “Promise me,” he said roughly. “Promise me that no matter what happens, where this leads, you _will_ take care of yourself. No matter what happens - what the danger to me or to Miranda. Swear it.” His eyes were fixed on Thomas, and Thomas could not help the shudder that ran through him at the look in his lover’s eyes, or at his sudden understanding of what had brought this on. That other version of him had done James and Miranda no favors when he had flung himself into the fire in their place, he saw, and he moved one hand to mirror James’, cupping the other man’s jaw. 

“If I could reach through time and shout at myself, I would do so in a second,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, James. I’m sorry that I did not think of your feelings before throwing myself to the wolves - that I didn’t see -” James shook his head.

“It wasn’t you,” he interrupted. “Don’t apologize. Just promise me. Swear to me it won’t happen again. I can’t do this, Thomas, not if I don’t know -” 

“I promise,” Thomas answered firmly, and James stopped, his breath shaking as he inhaled. “No more martyrs. We will trust in one another’s skills and consider each other’s wishes from now on.” James nodded shakily, and drew Thomas closer, kissing him in place of speaking. They drew back after a moment, foreheads resting against each other, hands still holding onto one another, and Thomas took the opportunity to run a hand through James’ hair, gently tugging to work out the snarls. James pulled back further and made a face at the feeling. 

“I’m still not used to that,” he confessed, and Thomas raised an eyebrow in a question. “The hair,” James explained, running his own hand through the red-brown locks. “I’d shaved it off before -”

The sound of horrified surprise that emerged from Thomas’ mouth was entirely involuntary, and James stopped talking, one corner of his mouth quirking upward as Thomas sat up straighter, brows drawn together, mouth hanging slightly open.

“ _Shaved_ it?” he asked, and James nodded, the quirking of his mouth becoming a full-blown grin. 

“All of it,” he confirmed, and Thomas gave him an appalled look. He could not picture it - did not _want_ to picture James’ head shorn of the beautiful auburn mane Thomas so liked to touch. It was iconoclasm - sacrilege of the worst kind - akin to destroying a priceless work of art, and he could not imagine what could have driven his lover to such destruction. 

“James - _why?_ ” he asked, and James shrugged, the grin sliding off his face. 

“It seemed practical at the time,” he answered, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t James McGraw anymore. I was Flint. I didn’t want to look in the mirror and see a dead man looking back at me.” 

The words sent a spike of horror through Thomas, and he closed his eyes. Dear God. Of all the reasons James could have given - had there been nothing, absolutely nothing in the past ten years that had not been driven by loss and pain and suffering?

“James -” he started, and took a deep breath before opening them again. He knew the answer to his own question and he did not wish to dwell upon it. “Never again,” he said firmly. “You will never have to so deface yourself again, I swear it.” He was _not_ talking only of James’ hair, although it was the primary concern at the moment, and James knew it. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and then gave a quiet huff of laughter. “If you could have seen your face -” he murmured, and Thomas scoffed. 

“And quite right, too!” he said. “Honestly, James - the drama of the thing! I’m sure you looked like an egg.” 

“Not entirely,” James argued. “I’d grown a beard, and -”

“A bearded egg!” Thomas exclaimed. “And worse, your quartermaster let you get away with this travesty!” 

James snickered, and Thomas felt a surge of satisfaction at the sound. 

“Silver was no more pleased than you are,” he admitted. “I seem to recall him going on about how I’d be impossible to pick out in a crowd or during a fight - something about, ‘how will I know you from any other idiot yelling orders on this ship?’” 

Thomas laughed quietly.

“I’d quite like to meet him one day,” he said, and James raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s not out of the question,” he admitted. He snorted. “I always wondered what you’d make of the slippery little shit.” 

Thomas offered him a smile. 

“Perhaps someday we’ll find out.”  
*****************************************************  
_June 24th, 1705_ :

He had forgotten how fucking loud London was.

It had been six weeks since he had woken, confused as hell, to find himself back amid the teeming squalor that was the capital city of the British Empire. It had taken him all of two minutes to piece together what had happened (pretty fucking obvious, and he’d all but wept for joy to find himself with two whole legs again, and then nearly wept again when he realized that he was not only whole again but in possession of the kind of knowledge that would make him a rich man several times over). He had spent the next week or so parlaying knowledge into coin, and trying not to allow the question of how he had ended up in his own past consume him whole any more than his frustration at readjusting to walking without a crutch. 

He had never thought he’d be saying it, but he missed life at sea. He’d known just how fucked he was from the moment he’d woken and wondered why the ground was not moving beneath him, but now, six weeks into this strange new life, he was worse than frustrated - he was positively homesick, and the notion was as strange as any he had ever tried to wrap his head around. He had never wanted to be a sailor, but damn if he didn’t miss the swaying motion underfoot and the creak of the boards and the comparative quiet of fifty men packed into the same space together over the noise and the filth and the press of London. No, John Silver thought - he had not missed the shit hole he had come from, nor would he miss it when he left it once again. 

Still - there was some good to be had about the place. It was, for instance, a great deal easier to overhear useful things here than it ever had been in Nassau. On New Providence, useful tidings tended to come with the risk of angry men with swords and pistols ready to kill someone at the drop of a hat. Here, on the other hand, everything he could possibly need to know was bandied about by women at market as easy as if he had simply picked it off the ground, without a single farthing ever needing to change hands. 

“Is Lord Hamilton still planning on leaving?” 

A case in point - the two women who had just begun talking not five feet from where he stood, bandying about a name that brought him up short. Lord Hamilton? Not -? The name stopped him short, and he realized with a jolt where and exactly when he was. If they were speaking of the same man -

“He is. Says ‘e’s not to be deterred, not even after all the unpleasantness.” 

“Rotten luck. What’ll your sister do now?”

“His lordship has offered a bonus for any servant that wants to accompany him, but I don’t think she’ll take it. She’ll be moving on - new house, new position.” 

“Smart. He can go to the West Indies on his own - him and his lady wife, too.”

“What’s your quarrel?” 

“Well, it was them that ordered it, wasn’t it - what happened to old Lord Ashbourne, even if they won’t say it?” 

“Who says?” 

“Everyone! Everyone knows they didn’t get along. Mind you, I’ve never heard a word that was good about the old bastard, so I s’pose he had it coming.”

“I don’t believe that. From what my sister says, young Lord Thomas is a gentle sort - wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“Maybe, but what about Lady Hamilton? She’s an odd duck from what I hear. Moody.” 

“That doesn’t mean she murdered him. Blimey! You think the Earl didn’t have enough other enemies without blaming her?” 

“Like who?” 

Silver backed away, his mind turning over what he had just heard. He could think of an excellent candidate - a certain red-haired companion of Lord and Lady Hamilton, for starters, he thought, mouth suddenly dry, energy buzzing through him. Flint. He was here, he had to be. It had not even occurred to John, and he silently cursed his own thoughtlessness. Of course he was- but was he truly Flint? Lord Ashbourne had died recently. If Flint had come back at the same time as Silver, why would he have waited? It was unlike Flint to leave loose ends for more than a few days, and Alfred Hamilton was nothing if not that. Perhaps not, then. Still - something had changed and the Earl had paid the price. Perhaps Lady Hamilton? If it was Flint, what was he playing at? He turned down the street, still pondering. If Flint was actually here - 

Christ. What if he was? Did it matter? Should it matter? This was a new life, with new possibilities, and the glorious freedom to go where he would, when he wanted, without the burden of being wanted for piracy or weighed down by a peg leg or - Or Flint. The thought struck him, and he stopped. Whether he was at large or in prison for murder -

He winced at the mental image of Flint in prison, something in his stomach twisting at the notion, and he suddenly recalled the last time he had been in this particular position - the last time Flint had been in serious trouble and in need of Silver’s aid. Yes, he admitted to himself quietly, it mattered. It mattered as much as it ever had, if not more now. And Jesus - if Flint were back here in the past - The thought stopped him cold, possibilities flashing through his mind. If Flint was back here - truly here, in person, brought back to this year as well, then Silver owed it to him to make sure that he wasn’t hanged for a murder that, by all accounts, had been more than merited. The realization brought a sigh to his lips as he scrubbed a hand over his face and through his hair, silently damning the god he didn’t really believe in and damning himself too for his utter lack of the ability to turn back like a sensible person. If Flint was in trouble, then John would help him, because- 

Because he had made a promise, and for the first time in twenty years it seemed as though he might have the chance to keep it. He would start with Lord Hamilton’s residence for answers, and tackle the question of how he was to break Flint out of Newgate if and when he reached that bridge. Now the question was how to find the house of the noble in question.

The two women were still talking, and he turned on one heel, heading straight toward them. One of them had a sister in Hamilton’s employ - she would know where he might start looking.

“Excuse me, ladies. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weird thing I had to look up for this chapter: How long have oil lamps been a thing? Answer: Approximately since the dawn of time, so the lamp Thomas is holding is not an anachronism. For anyone who was wondering.


	9. Adjustment and Ambush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: No Mirandas were harmed in the making of this chapter, and I feel like you all know me well enough to know that she's going to be fine. See the eventual happy ending tag for further explanation.

He was being watched.

James became conscious of it halfway through breakfast - the brown eyes that were following his every movement, watching as he flicked between one page and the next, assessing, planning - 

He lowered the book in his hands, shooting Miranda a quizzical expression from across the table. 

“Did you need something?” he asked, and Miranda’s mouth quirked upward, her hand playing with the corner of her napkin, her eyes glittering with mirth. 

"You always did look quite dashing in a waistcoat," she mused, her eyes traveling up and down his form as he sat, clad in waistcoat and shirt sleeves, drinking a cup of coffee at the breakfast table. "I had almost forgotten how very appealing it looked on you."

James raised one eyebrow, lowering the book entirely, marking his place with a thin ribbon.

"You haven't forgotten a thing," he accused. "I've heard you complaining about the buttons. Several times."

She scrunched her nose, the expression almost playful.

"Hush," she answered. "That was something else entirely."

"Yes - specifically, a case of the whole forest being eclipsed by a few trees," Thomas interjected. "She's quite right, you know - there are too many buttons on that particular ensemble." His lover had just entered the breakfast room, his blond hair sticking up in all directions, wearing shirt and breeches but not much else, and James shot him a look of fond exasperation.

"There are just enough to keep the two of you in check," he answered, tongue firmly in cheek. "I'd never stay decent for more than five minutes if there weren't so many of them."

Miranda smiled, and James turned back to her, the smile on his own face growing at the sight of hers. Miranda’s mood was a work in progress, still tenuous, but it had grown steadily better since Alfred’s death, and James anticipated it would continue to improve with time and distance from London. They were both, he thought with something approaching pride, getting better.

"What occasion are we celebrating?" she asked, gesturing to the captain's coat and the hat that lay on the table next to him, ready to be donned on his way out of the house. It was, he thought, rather as if she were reading his mind, but then she had always had a way of doing that. 

"I have some preparations to be made aboard ship," James answered. "Manifests to be gone over, inspections to be completed, that sort of thing. It's likely to take all day, but -" He trailed off, and Thomas finished for him.

"At the end of it, we'll be ready to leave London. Off to New Providence at last." James nodded, and Miranda regarded him with a careful eye.

"Has the Admiral approved the plans?" she asked, and James nodded.

"At a distance, yes."

She did not answer, but the silence was palpable.

"I intend to speak to him before we leave," James defended.

"Of course," she demurred, and Thomas frowned.

"You still haven't spoken with him?"

James shook his head, and Thomas frowned.

"James - it's been two weeks. Don't you think -?"

"I know," James groaned. "I know. I just - what the hell do I say?"

It was the sole fly in the ointment, as far as James was concerned. The two weeks since Alfred's death had been busy - taken up with funeral arrangements, mourning rituals, the disposal of Alfred's property, and their own preparations to leave for Nassau. Still - it had been a good two weeks, especially for James himself.

_Two months earlier:_

_He was having difficulty convincing himself to relax._

_It was an odd thing, really. Thomas and Miranda were alive. That alone should have been enough to convince him. He was loved, and safe - home, finally, after eleven years and therein lay the rub. He had no idea how to be himself again, and the last week and a half had only emphasized the fact that he was woefully out of his depth. It had been eleven years - over a decade since he had last spoken to any of the people that he had interacted with on a daily basis. Over a decade since he had done the most basic of things that were expected for a gentleman of his social standing - tied his own neck cloth, found his way through London - eleven bloody years since he had tied his hair back in a queue. Over a decade gone since he had last looked in the mirror and truly seen James McGraw._

_Not, of course, that he did currently._

_“I can’t do it.” He stood, staring at the mirror in despair, an astonished expression on his face, his hair spilling around his shoulders, with Thomas standing, one arm wrapped around his middle, and the other raised to his mouth, covering it with his hand, grinning like mad, his shoulders shaking with mirth. “Thomas - for fuck’s sake -” He turned, ribbon in hand, and his lover’s eyes widened, caught in his laughter. “It’s not fucking funny!” James insisted, and Thomas smoothed the hand over his mouth, making an attempt to shelve his merriment with it._

_“Of course not,” he murmured, eyes still dancing. “Would you like me to tie it for you?”_

_“No,” James growled. “I’ll do it myself. I -” He made another attempt, and this time the ribbon dropped to the ground, mocking him as it sat by his foot, and he stared at it. “I don’t suppose you’d let me cut it off again?” he asked weakly, and Thomas shook his head._

_“Not a chance,” he answered. He bent to pick up the ribbon, and then straightened. “You’re overthinking it,” he advised. “Surely your hands remember the motion if the rest of you does not?” He handed the ribbon back to James, who took a deep breath. He was right - of course he was right. He turned back to the mirror, closing his eyes. He had done this a thousand times - more than that. He could do it again. He raised his hands, and when he opened his eyes again, his hair had been pulled back neatly, the ribbon wrapped around it double the way he had always done, and tied off with a bow that, while a little lopsided, was definitely not the horrifyingly off-kilter thing he had been fighting with for the past fifteen minutes._

_“There,” Thomas had said quietly, raising a hand to tug at one side. “Done. You haven’t forgotten as much as you think you have. Now, where did you say you were off to? Drills at the naval yard?”_

_He felt a frisson of horror run through him. Drills. Fuck, shit, damn it, and bugger - he had forgotten the reason he was fussing with the queue in the first place._

_“Thomas,” James said, his voice plaintive._

_“Yes, James?”_

_“I don’t remember the bloody drills.”_

Slowly but surely, though, things were coming back to him. Small things, mostly - things he had taken utterly for granted until he had woken eleven years out of his time and realized that he had forgotten them. The smell of Miranda’s favorite perfume and Thomas’ favorite soap. The sound of carriages moving over cobblestones, and the name of the barkeep at his favorite tavern. His own preferences in wine and in food, both of which he had forgotten out of simple necessity in Nassau. Conversations, too, were becoming easier now that he was no longer left to guess at what had been said when last he had spoken with most of his acquaintances, and he'd finally, finally stopped getting lost in London itself (just, of course, in time to leave it once more). It was, he thought, rather as if he had opened a drawer of old clothing and mementos and found himself wondering why he had packed away half its contents in the first place. 

Speaking of clothing, he had finally settled back into his. It had been a struggle, at first. The boots had been familiar enough, if somewhat uncomfortably new. The shirt, likewise, had been a familiar commodity, but the waistcoat - the waistcoat and the damn neck cloth - had felt for all the world like strangulation devices. He had spent the past month and a half fidgeting, both in his clothing and in general - waiting, he had realized, for the moment it would all go wrong - that he would have to become Captain Flint once more. Waiting for the stroke of fate that would end this dream and send them all back to where they had begun, miserable and alone. 

Miranda had been right. It was a realization he had come to the night that he had confessed his fears to Thomas - the same night that he had last spoken with Admiral Hennessey. He had not wanted to admit it, either in Nassau or here, but she had pinpointed his problem some time before, and, as usual, he had only himself to blame for denying what she had said. Monster, they had called him, vile and profane, and some part of him had believed them - had heard the words hurled at him and taken them as confirmation of a truth he had long feared. He had been fighting, not for Thomas or for Nassau, but to prove England wrong - to prove them all wrong about him, about Thomas, about the viability of their plans. To make them sorry for calling him a monster, and now -

Now the promise of having that word taken back lay in front of him, and he was too damned terrified to reach out and take it. For all of his recent bravery - and it was that, he was not so completely oblivious as to not understand just how much courage it had taken to bring him to this point - he was absolutely paralyzed at this, and the result was the current fit of doubt that he was struggling through. He had not contacted Admiral Hennessey - had not wanted to, and yet at the same time he wanted to so badly it was all but driving him mad with it. 

“James -” Thomas started, and then sighed. “It’s your decision, of course.” He scrubbed a hand over his hair, looking with distaste at the wig that one of the servants had brought to him. “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to losing track of that wretched thing for good,” he muttered. “I don’t suppose you’d agree to switch for the day? My wig for your hat?” James smiled, and shook his head. 

“Not in _this_ lifetime,” he answered, and Thomas brightened. 

“You mean we’ve done it before? Do tell!” 

James shook his head again, laughing now, and reached for his coat, pulling it on and giving it a tug to straighten it. 

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He finished pulling on his gloves and rolled his eyes as Thomas handed him the hat that he had still not managed to lose. The damnable thing was determined to stay with him, he had found, whether by Thomas’ efforts or the servants’, and he had given up truly trying to leave it behind the week before, when he had finally forgotten it aboard his ship only to have one of the ship’s boys deliver it to him at the lodging house the very next day. 

“There’s no chance of having you back before dinner, I suppose?” Miranda asked, and James shook his head ruefully. 

“Not likely,” he answered. “It’s amazing what the Navy is willing to consider a matter for the captain’s attention,” he said derisively. It was the truth. Aboard the Walrus, whatever problem the men had discovered would have been handled, Mr. DeGroot apprised of the situation, and they would have continued on as normal until they reached the nearest port, with James being told of the problem immediately only if there was a chance it could affect the ship’s ability to maneuver in a fight. It was a functional difference between sailing a pirate ship and commanding a ship of the line attached to the British fleet, and James could not say he was entirely fond of the change. Idly, he wondered if there were any possibility of recruiting DeGroot when they reached Nassau, provided the man proved willing to take the pardon. He missed the other man’s solid, sensible nature and, if he was honest, he missed the look DeGroot would get on his face every time James did something particularly insane with the ship. It had been a game of sorts - how red could DeGroot’s face become before a real strategy had to be suggested? Gates had caught him at it once or twice - it had been one of the things that had caused the man to warm to him as a friend, as a matter of fact, rather than just his quartermaster. He made a mental note to introduce Thomas to Gates if the opportunity ever arose, and looked around him, making sure he had not missed anything. Satisfied that he had not, he turned back to his lovers.

“I’ll send word if I’m going to be late,” he told them both. “Don’t wait up.” With that, he left the room, heading for the door and from it the port.  
******************************************  
Flint was not in prison.

In fact, James Flint was nowhere in evidence, as Silver had discovered when he reached the Hamilton household. Questions regarding him had been met with confused faces from the servants, and Silver abruptly realized that he would not have been known under that name - not here, not now. He left the house feeling simultaneously irritated at himself and burning alive with curiosity. 

At least, he thought as he ate, he was no longer bored. As expected, the readdition of Flint into his calculations had provided a day’s entertainment, and damn his overactive younger mind for its constant, incessant need for stimulation. If Flint was not Flint - was in fact still James McGraw - then what was he like? _Where_ was he? And, just as importantly - who was Thomas Hamilton? Silver had not given much (or, in all truth, any) consideration to the matter since his abrupt awakening, but he suddenly realized that he had an unprecedented chance. He could, in fact, finally answer some of the questions that had been burning at the back of his mind since Flint’s confession the night before the battle. He had spoken of an English lord who had apparently been so very, nauseatingly good as to change everything about Flint simply by the mere fact of his presence. From what Silver had gathered, someone had taken measures to ensure that Lord Hamilton would remain safe from his father in this time, and he abruptly wondered whether it had been Thomas himself. He could not deny the urge to meet the man himself - to finally see what it was about him that had driven Flint mad with grief at his loss. Had he even met James yet? 

A better question - what right did Silver have to know the answer to that question? What right had he to be doing any of this - to even contemplate doing any of this in the face of what he had done? He had walked around all day in a daze, but now, sitting in the darkening tavern with food and a full day's walking under his belt, he could not help the small voice that questioned whether he shouldn't rather turn around. He should not be doing this. Flint, or McGraw, or whoever he was at the moment, was doing just fine without the aid of John Silver, liar, pirate, and coward extraordinaire - and yet, what was John if not exactly the coward he'd just accused himself of being if he turned back now? If he refused to even face the man he'd wronged?

He was still mulling the possibilities when he left the tavern, considering his next moves. It was drawing on toward evening, he realized with surprise. When he’d begun his walk about town, it had been just shy of noon, and now the streets had grown shadowed, the sun having finally finished setting behind the buildings. He frowned, considering his route back to his lodgings. If he skirted around the next set of buildings, he could take a shortcut, but -

The sound of fighting reached his ears not long before he rounded the corner, and he stood, one eyebrow raised as he watched the fight. It looked, he thought, as though a group of toughs had, for some insane reason, elected to take on a naval officer. The man’s bright buttons shone in the fading light, and John clucked his tongue. Any idiot that would go wandering around these streets so close to dark wearing that -

Red hair flashed in the light, and Silver’s heart skipped a beat. His eyes narrowed, and he looked closer. No. He could not possibly be this lucky - or this unfortunate, depending on how he looked at it.

“Flint?”  
*****************************************************  
The attack, when it came, was almost a joke. 

He could hardly complain. Indeed, he found himself almost laughing at the sheer stupidity of it all. His opponents were poorly outfitted, ill-coordinated, and didn’t have so much sense as to even wear masks. Still - this, James thought, was what he got for walking instead of being sensible. 

It was past nightfall, as he’d expected. The business of his new ship had kept him past what most people would have called a reasonable hour and what the Navy referred to as heading into dogs’ watches. If he had had any sense, he would have stayed aboard for the night and sent word, but he had wanted to surprise Thomas and Miranda by coming home. He had elected to walk to the nearest tavern for dinner before catching a hackney - a fact which he was now regretting. It would have been infinitely more difficult for this bunch of cutthroats if he had simply taken Thomas’ carriage this morning and set a time to be picked up. He had contemplated it, but reasoned that it would be pushing the limits for him to arrive at the dock in a private carriage bearing a coat of arms that was quite obviously not his own, practically proclaiming his status as part of the family by doing so first thing in the morning. They were still in London, after all. Such blatant displays would have to wait until they reached Nassau, although he knew that Thomas was looking forward to them immensely. Now, though, he was regretting the decision as he faced off against a man that had all the marks of a trained fighter, from the way he held himself to the grip on his sword. The man grinned, and James cursed himself for a fool once again. Being James McGraw had its advantages, certainly - many of them, but this was definitely not one. No one would ever have tried this with Captain Flint, nor would they have been fucking smirking at him. The thought rankled, irritation coursing through him, and something darker following in its wake. He could -

He took a deep breath, tamping down the rage that was building within him. No. Let them think him afraid. Let them think him weak. He was not out to build a reputation - not here, not now, not ever again. He was not that man.

“Who hired you?” he asked. He didn’t really expect an answer, but you never knew - sometimes men really were that stupid, and it was worth a try. 

“Doesn’t matter,” the man answered, and James raised an eyebrow. Interesting. So they had, in fact, been hired and hadn’t just decided to take him on out of stupidity and greed. He had no further time to contemplate the meaning of that, though, before he was dodging the other man’s first blow, moving to the side in a flurry of coat tails.

There were too many of them. It was not surprising - in fact, it was just about fucking typical, but some foolish part of him had hoped that these days were behind him - that he could stop waking up in the morning with the aches and pains he’d earned in these kinds of dog fights. Thomas, he thought, was not going to be pleased, although he’d be less irritated than concerned, as would Miranda, and he made a mental note to attempt not to bleed on her floor this time. That was, of course, if he managed to make it back to them. He darted in closer, attempting a blow against one of the bastard’s sides, and was rebuffed, only just dodging the slash that one of them aimed at his face. He did not, however, dodge the fist that one of them aimed at his back, and it landed with a solid thump. He gasped, stumbling for a second, and barely dodged the next blow, returning one of his own. The pain lanced through him, and he gritted his teeth, seeing the one that had landed the blow smirking at him. He was not, he repeated silently to himself, going to let loose on these men. He had, up until this point, been holding back. The two men groaning on the ground could attest to that - he had injured them, certainly, but they would live to tell the tale if he was any judge. The longer the fight wore on, though, the harder he had to fight to tamp down the anger that coursed through him at the whole situation. He was tired - so very tired of having to fight just to go home, and the bastards circling him were evidence that the knot of worry that James had been carrying around since Alfred’s death had not been unwarranted. Someone wanted him dead - worse, someone intended to use his death against his lovers, and the thought sent a fresh wave of rage running through him, only just barely held in check. He did not have time for this. He wanted - needed - to end this. He needed to go back to the Hamiltons’ mansion and check on Thomas and Miranda immediately, and these men stood squarely in his way. He glanced up the alley, and saw a third figure standing, silent, apparently just watching the fight. A sentry, then, or a runner meant to inform their employer if all did not go to plan. 

“Ah ah,” one of the men said. “No running, Captain.” The tone of his voice grated on James’ nerves, and he struck at the man, forcing him to dance away. “You’re not going anywhere,” the other man taunted, and James fought against the urge to release the roiling, violent thing that was building inside him. James McGraw was _not_ a murderer. He was not - A second blow landed on one knee, and James swore. That had fucking _hurt_ , and the pain tore through the final barrier he had been clinging to with his fingernails. Fuck this, fuck them, and fuck playing nice. He limped backwards, assessing the damage done. The joint hurt, certainly, but he could still stand on it - could still fight, and he grinned dangerously. 

“You should have hit harder,” he rasped. “Come on. Try it again.”  
************************************************************  
Silver could see the moment the fight changed. He could feel the shift in the air, could smell it, almost. 

“Oh shit,” he muttered, stepping forward. “Flint -” 

It was too late. The smell of blood hit the air in the next instant, drawn from the arm of the man closest to the naval officer and his sword. The men in the alleyway, he thought with a hint of pity, did not stand a chance. They had been expecting a tamed falcon - a hunting bird, trained to the lead and the jesses. What they had gotten - 

What they had gotten was a tiger, and he could not quite help the admiration that welled up in him at the sight before him. The man was still up against two of them. By all rights, he should have bitten the dust five minutes ago, and yet, somehow, against all expectations _he was winning_. That, more than anything else, spoke to Silver’s inkling that the man before him was James Flint, brought back to London and his own past just as Silver had been. The way he fought -

He was about to turn around. He had found Flint. He was alive and well and holding his own, and what was that if not the answer to Silver's question? What use could there be in him reinserting himself into the man's life - in tempting fate? He started to move -

He could not have said what happened next. Later, when he tried to recall, all that would come was the memory of a grunt and Flint falling, his head hitting the ground with a sickening thud just as Silver’s heart began to race, anger and fear burning through him. He was moving forward before he knew it, intercepting one of the men as he began to kick at Flint’s torso. There was a scream as Silver gripped the man’s arm and twisted, and the rest was a blur that ended with Silver standing over the body of the bastard that had landed the blow, breathing hard, the sound of the running footsteps of the lone survivor fading into the distance. He was, he realized, quite entirely unharmed, and he took a moment to be thankful that whatever homicidal rage had come over him had not led him to do something truly stupid in the name of the man now lying on the ground some distance away, alarmingly still. It was not until Silver reached him, his fingers feeling somewhat shakily for a pulse and finding one within seconds, that he realized something else.

Two out of the three men on the ground were still breathing. One groaned, one knee plainly twisted. The other was bleeding but neither unconscious or in any danger of bleeding out, if Silver was to judge. It was an anomaly, he realized with a frown. The Flint he had known did not leave survivors - most especially among those who had wronged him in some way, such as ganging up on him in a dark alley and attempting to kill him. He gave the naval officer lying on the ground a second look, frowning now. If he had just made a name for himself in London and murdered a man over someone other than Flint, he was going to be truly, monumentally pissed. 

“Christ,” he muttered, looking over the officer’s bloodied form. Now that he was closer, he could clearly see red hair where the light from the nearby lantern fell on it, highlighting what little of it was not covered in blood or shadow. Still - the features were not familiar at first glance. The sensitive mouth that was visible in the dim lantern light, for one thing, was foreign, as was the long hair and the carefully shaven chin, and Silver felt a spark of disappointment at the realization. Still - the man had fought like a damn demon. That was worthy of a certain amount of recognition, and maybe the basic decency of making sure he was alright. He leaned over the man, eyes going over him looking for serious injuries and finding none, save the head wound.

“Well, you’re not Flint, but you sure as fuck fight like him. That’s not a compliment, by the way. He was always shit with a sword.” It was a lie, of course. Flint - Flint had never been shit with a sword, but Silver had, and he'd heard it so often since, and was it his fault if his claims that he'd learned everything he knew from Flint himself had led to jokes from his shipmates that Flint must have been less than adept with a blade?

As if hearing him, the officer groaned. 

“With my luck, you’ll turn out to be him yet and be none too pleased about that comment,” John muttered. He could see the other man’s eyes fluttering slowly and he reached out a tentative hand. 

“Hey,” he started, and then the man’s eyes opened wide all in one moment. He rolled onto one side, and John moved out of the way just in time to avoid being retched upon. He stood, waiting patiently, and then knelt at the officer’s side again when the heaving subsided, replaced instead by wet-sounding coughs. 

“F-fuck,” the man muttered. He curled in on himself, somehow managing not to get his hair in the sick, and gave another short moan, clutching at his stomach with one arm. “Fuck,” he repeated, and John could not help but agree.

“You’re a mess, friend,” he said. “I don’t know what your quarrel was with these gents, but -”

“S-Silver?” 

The question stopped him dead in his tracks, and he looked at the man again - truly looked, this time, a sinking feeling starting in his stomach. That voice - He looked the man up and down again, looking for some sign he had missed. It could not be, and yet - the officer’s eyes were open, now, and staring straight at Silver. His green, wrenchingly familiar eyes. 

“Fuck, I was joking!” he exclaimed, almost pleading with the universe. He looked back at the man curled up on the ground, seeing now the familiar cheekbones and eyebrows, picturing them accompanied by a ginger beard and twisty mustache. “Flint?” 

His former captain shook his head, his eyes closing again as he took a deep breath. 

“No,” he gritted out. “It’s - fuck -” He shook his head as if attempting to clear it, and then attempted to hold back another bout of sickness, his face going rather green around the edges. Silver sighed. Answers were plainly going to have to wait - a fact which was emphasized by the approaching sound of voices in the street. He stood, almost surprised at the ease with which he could do so.

“Never mind,” he answered. “You need to get out of here - we both do. Can you stand?” 

Flint (Not Flint? He had denied the name, but he had known Silver. Who the fuck was the man lying on the ground in front of him?) nodded minutely, pressing one hand against the ground, and levered himself to his feet slowly. He wobbled slightly, and Silver took it from there, wrapping one of his captain’s arms around his own shoulders and allowing him to lean heavily.

“Where are you staying?” he asked. 

“West End,” Flint whispered. “Albemarle Street.” 

John grimaced.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Well, we’re not going that far, not like this. Come on. And don’t you dare throw up on me.”  
********************************************  
“Miranda - James said not to wait.” 

She turned, her lips pressed together in an unhappy frown.

“He said he would return,” she insisted. “I have known him for ten years. I have seen him go through every difficulty that life has to offer, and I know he would not elect to spend the night aboard the ship without sending word. Thomas - he is in trouble.” 

Her husband frowned, coming forward to join her by the window again. 

“You’re certain?” 

She nodded, pulling her shawl closer to her. The sun had set an hour past, and she stared out the window, watching the fog roll in off the Thames, feeling a chill run down her spine that had nothing to do with the change in the weather.

“Yes. I can’t explain it. I know it’s irrational - silly, even, but -” She turned to Thomas, seeking his eyes with hers. “I have a terrible feeling about tonight,” she finished quietly, and he placed his hands on either of her shoulders, squeezing gently.

“You’re not being silly. If you’re truly worried, then we’ll go after him.” He turned. “Davies - please have the carriage brought ‘round. Lady Hamilton and I will be going to the docks.” 

“Thank you,” she murmured quietly, and he nodded.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “I’ve always liked foggy nights. That’s strange, I know, but when I was a boy Will and Robert used to creep into my room on nights like this one and we would tell one another absolutely appalling stories. I’m surprised any of us made it to adulthood unscathed, given what we thought was lurking out on the moors.” 

_And I am quite certain that anything lurking on the moors was preferable to what was lurking inside the house_ , Miranda thought, but did not give it voice. Alfred was dead, and yet she could not quite escape the feeling that had come over her tonight - a feeling of impending dread that would not be shaken. 

It was little wonder, she thought irritably. After years of disappointments, of plans gone wrong - could she truly blame herself if she was a little apprehensive now? No, she reassured herself. She was not being irrational, or overly cautious. If anything were to happen to James now -

“The carriage is ready, milord. My lady.” Davies’ voice sounded from behind them, and Thomas nodded. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, and Davies bowed and retreated. “Come,” he said. “We’ll go and find James together and offer him a ride home.”  
*******************************************************  
“You know,” Thomas said, “I’m looking forward to seeing Nassau for the first time. The way that you and James have described it, it sounds like a cross between one of the worse streets in the East End and the Garden of Eden itself.” 

Miranda snorted. “Hardly that,” she murmured, and grimaced as the carriage went over yet another bump. The roads to the docks, she found, were badly in need of repair, and she suddenly found herself glad that there were precious few carriages in Nassau. She said as much to him, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Truly? Does everyone walk everywhere?” 

“For the most part,” Miranda answered. “I had a horse and cart, but I lived in the interior where there was need for one. James had a horse - he named her -” She stopped, making a sudden face. “You know, I can’t recall what the poor thing’s name was. I’m sure James had a name for her, but -”

The carriage slowed to a halt, and Thomas frowned, looking out the window. 

“We haven’t arrived yet,” he observed, and stuck his head out of the window, motioning to their driver. “Why are we stopping?” 

“Your pardon, my lord. There seems to be a commotion in the street ahead. Something about a fight gone wrong.” 

Miranda felt her blood freeze in her veins, and she looked at Thomas, whose frown had abruptly turned to a look of unbridled fear. 

“James,” he murmured, and then he was standing, exiting the carriage without a further thought.  
****************************************  
The crowd gathered in the street was startlingly large.

Lantern light illumined a circle in the center of the gathered assemblage, and the sounds of their hushed conversations broke the strange silence created by the fog that surrounded them. There were men, women, and children all milling about, and for a moment Thomas stood at the edge of it, wondering how on Earth he was ever going to get to the center.

“What’s happened?” He could hear someone else, another disgruntled voice, and he turned, hoping to hear the answer.

“There’s been a murder!” The person who answered sounded obscenely cheerful, and Thomas felt his stomach clench. He had no proof that James had anything to do with this. It was not as though no one were ever murdered in this district - it was London, after all, and close to the docks. The fact remained, though, that this was the way that James would have come after clearing up matters on his ship, perhaps in hopes of catching a hackney to bring him the rest of the way home. It was a ridiculous fear, born of tension and Miranda’s conviction that things were going too smoothly and yet he could not simply dismiss her concerns. She was right, he knew. She had been right the night that his father had died, and right before, in that other life that haunted her still. Something was wrong, and this -

“Who - who died?” he managed to ask, heart in his throat, and the bystander he was speaking with shrugged.

“No idea, I’m afraid,” the man said. “Looks as though there was a fight and the poor victim got the worst of it. A robbery, perhaps?” 

Thomas nodded his thanks and moved away. He had to see - had to know what had occurred. It took him several moments to shoulder his way through the crowd, aided by his height and the urgency of his movements. When at last he reached the center of the circle, he stopped, closing his eyes for a moment, and then opening them, afraid of what he would see.

It was not James. He let out a sigh, feeling vaguely guilty at his own reaction to the sight before him. Someone lay dead - that much was not in question. Blood soaked the ground, filling the air with the coppery tang of it, puddles of it lying around the body of a man who looked to have been about half a foot shorter than Thomas. He was still clutching an unsheathed sword, and from the look on his face, he had not died a happy man but a frightened one. If James had been here - 

He had not. Of course he had not. Thomas receded back into the crowd, comforting himself with the thought that his lover was no doubt back at Albemarle Street by now, wondering where on Earth they had -

Gone. He stared at the ground, suddenly transfixed, his eyes resting on the discarded hat that lay, unnoticed, nearby, rolled into a gutter some ten feet from the rest of the milling crowd. The man on the ground had been wearing one - an old, battered thing more grey than black, but the one by Thomas’ feet was still the jet black of a newer hat, its edges scuffed from having been kicked, and inside it -

Thomas knelt to pick up the hat, his fingers trembling as they picked out two strands of red hair that still clung to the lining, shed, no doubt, by their owner, and Thomas was suddenly sickeningly aware that James’ hair was, in fact, this exact color - one shared by a vanishingly small portion of London’s population, few of whom could have afforded a hat of this kind, one that Thomas distinctly recalled picking up and placing on his lover’s head a hundred times over the past month. James _had_ been here - had been part of the fight that had ended with a man dead. Had he emerged unharmed, or was he now lying dead, bled out somewhere nearby? Or had he been taken captive, to be used as a pawn in a game that Thomas was not yet aware he was a part of? James was - was - 

“My lord! My lord!”

The shout came to him from out of the crowd, and he turned, the sick feeling in his stomach only increasing. His driver came stumbling through the fog, and he caught the man, noting as if in a daze his pale face and shaking hands. 

“Hobbs - Hobbs, what is it?” 

“My lord - Lady Hamilton -” 

The sick feeling was quickly turning from terror into outright horror, the blood freezing in his veins and a chill racing down his spine.

“What about her?” The man shook his head, and Thomas shook him in turn. “What about her?” he all but shouted. 

“G-gone,” the man stuttered. “Taken. I’m sorry - I’m sorry -”  


He released Hobbs. His hands, he found, had suddenly gone numb, his eyes seeking the empty carriage, noting the open door hanging as if it had been wrenched from its hinges.

“Who -?” he started, and Hobbs pointed. 

“They - they left a note -” 

It took him four steps - four agonizing steps to reach the carriage, and he reached inside to extract the note, written on thick, crisp paper, that lay on the seat inside, neatly placed at the center, and sealed.

“They - they swore they would hurt me if she made a fuss,” Hobbs sobbed. “I’m sorry, my lord -” 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Thomas murmured, his thumb stroking over the lion crossed by a single bar embossed on the seal. “It wasn’t your fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, comments and kudos are much appreciated! Next chapter, we get more interaction between Silver and James.


	10. The Mirror Cracked

_The following morning:_

His head was going to split apart.

It was the only explanation James could think of for the blinding, throbbing pain that started somewhere at the back of his skull and radiated out, testament to the night he had had. He was still alive - that much was not in question, but the how and the why of it escaped him for the moment, lost in the thumping of his pulse and the faint ringing in his ears. The last time his head had hurt this badly -

He had woken up eleven years in his own past. He opened his eyes, suddenly alarmed, his gaze taking in the relatively small room that he now found himself in. He did not recognize it. The light spilling in from the single window told him it was no longer evening, but he did not know what time it was, or what day, or what year. What if -?

“Easy,” a voice said to his right, and he could feel and hear his heart begin to beat faster, recognition washing over him. He rolled over and sat up in one motion, panic beginning to twist his stomach into knots - and felt his hair brush past his neck. Like ice water being dumped over his head, it stopped the panic in its tracks, giving him something else to focus on. He took a deep breath, the alarm suddenly ebbing away, his heart slowly returning to its usual rhythm. Flint did not have long hair - did not, in fact, have any hair at all. James did. He had not gone forward in time, then, thank God. Still - something was out of place. He knew that voice, and it did not belong here - or perhaps he did not.

“Silver,” he croaked, and the man in question stepped forward into his line of vision.

“The one and I sincerely hope only,” Silver said with a grin, and James blinked, his mind refusing to reconcile what he saw in front of him with what he had somehow expected.

“Silver?” The other man raised an eyebrow.

“Ye-es. We just discussed this. You do remember that?” 

“Of course I do,” James spat. “I -” He shook his head, still looking at Silver, who crossed his arms. 

“You’re staring. Is something amiss?” asked the curly-haired, two-legged, _painfully young_ man in front of him. 

“You’re - younger,” he managed to spit out stupidly, and Silver grinned.

“I know,” he answered cheerily. “Oh don’t give me that look. You’ve no stones to throw. God - look at _you!_ ” 

James grimaced. He could imagine only too well what he looked like at the moment, for all that Silver had not spoken out of derision. He ran a hand over his hair, and felt the dry, stiff places where it was covered in blood or dirt. His coat was little better, he knew, and he could only imagine the state of the rest of him. None of that mattered, however, in the face of a more pressing question.

“Where am I?” he asked roughly, and Silver frowned. 

“You don’t remember?” he asked, and James shook his head.

“Would I be asking if I did?” 

Silver gave him a look.

“Still your old charming self, I see,” he answered sourly. “You know, I had high hopes. Here I was, thinking that coming back here might sweeten your disposition - make you a touch less cantankerous, but it appears-” 

“Silver - don’t make me ask again. Where are we?” James asked, and Silver rolled his eyes.

“We’re perfectly safe,” he answered. “When I found you in that alley last night and saved your hide - you’re welcome, by the way - I brought you back to my room. It’s nothing as fancy as where you’ve evidently been staying, but it’s a damn sight better than staying with the corpse of the poor bastard that attacked you. You’re lucky -”

“How the devil do you know where I’m staying?” Silver rolled his eyes again, and James just barely bit back the urge to strangle him. It was truly amazing just how annoying the man could manage to be in the space of five minutes.

“Such language, and from an officer in her Majesty’s Navy, too,” Silver said, the same shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “You know, I knew you were Navy, but it’s one thing knowing it and another altogether seeing it. I thought you said you were a lieutenant?”

“Promoted recently,” James grunted. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

“Here as in this building, or here, more than a decade in our mutual past? Because while I know the answer to one, the other is as much a mystery to me as I suspect it is to you.” 

James shot him a look, and Silver grinned.

“Here in London,” James clarified. “Apparently tailing me, unless by some coincidence you just _happened_ to be in the area last night.” 

“Christ you're impressed with yourself," John muttered. "I wasn’t following you."

James raised an eyebrow. 

“Well - not exactly, anyway, although I will confess I was looking,” Silver amended.

“Why?” The question came out almost before James knew what his mouth was doing. Silver considered the question for a moment, his expression turned thoughtful.

“I’m not sure myself,” he answered finally. “I suppose, all things being equal, life was a lot more exciting with you around, and besides, I thought that if there were one other man on the face of the Earth unlucky enough to end up stranded over a decade in the past, it would be you.”

“You came looking for me because you were bored?” 

“Something like that - yes,” the other man admitted, and James sat for a moment, frowning, unsure what to do with that information. 

“You’re - what the fuck is the matter with you?” he asked rhetorically. 

“Nothing, for once,” Silver answered, a satisfied smile working its way across his face. “And I intend to stay that way, so whatever you decide to do next, let’s not make it anything that’s likely to get either of us killed or maimed, just as a suggestion.” 

“Wait - we? Us?” 

“Unless you’d like to try and get off that floor and track down whoever tried to have you killed on your own.” 

He had a point, James was forced to concede. His head was throbbing, various parts of him hurt almost as badly, and he was far from clean enough to walk the streets without occasioning comment or even to hire a coach. From the sunlight bathing the room and highlighting the stark, white walls, he could guess that it was likely still morning, but of what day? 

“Shit.” He put a hand to his head. “What’s the date?” 

John’s eyebrow raised further. 

“It’s Wednesday,” he answered. “You were out for a few hours. I’d have worried, but they hit the hardest part of you.”

James swore again, and tried to think through the raging headache. He had not been out for all that long, but someone had clearly ordered the beating and perhaps worse than that. And as he had no particular enemies at this time that he was aware of - 

“Thomas and Miranda,” he murmured, trying to stand. He wobbled on his feet, and Silver raised a hand, placing it on his arm and pushing him back down onto the mattress. 

“You’re going nowhere just yet,” he said. “You think your attackers were sent by someone else?”

“Yes,” James answered in lieu of nodding. “I need to get back to them - they’re in danger. I -”

He tried to stand again, and this time the dizziness that hit him forced him to sit again. Silver grimaced.

“You’re still groggy from the blow,” he opined. 

“You don’t say?” James snarked, and Silver grinned. 

“I do say. Tell you what, Captain. Why don’t I do a quick check on the Hamiltons while you stay here? I’ll let them know you’re safe, make sure that they’re warned, and come back here for you.”

“Head wound,” James gritted out. “Shouldn’t be left alone.” 

“You’re going nowhere like that,” Silver answered. “And if what you say is true, then there might be a lot riding on warning them. We should -”

“I’m coming with you,” James gritted out. He placed one hand on the mattress, the other going to the bed post, and he pulled and pushed himself to his feet, closing his eyes against the vertigo. He opened them again a moment later and took a deep breath. He was up. He had had worse than this, and he was going to Thomas and Miranda. Nothing else was a possibility. He took a step and then another, and Silver shook his head.

“You’re going to fall over,” he predicted. “Trust me. As someone who used to do so all the time -”

James took another step, stubbornly ignoring him - and felt the moment that his stomach ceased to heed his instructions, seesawing up and down, sending a wave of nausea rolling over him. He stopped moving altogether, surprised by the force of it, and closed his eyes. The nausea receded after a moment and he swallowed hard. Silver sighed.

“Are you going to listen to me this time, or are we going to continue having this discussion all the way to Albemarle Street?” 

James opened his eyes again, glaring at Silver, and regretting it a moment later as the nausea returned full-force. He swallowed again, unable to retort, and took a deep breath.

“You may have a point,” he admitted grudgingly, and Silver snorted. 

“You don’t say?” he echoed James, and then flashed him another shit-eating grin at the look on James’ face. “You invited that,” he informed James, who continued to glare at him. 

“What the fu-” He stopped, and took a deep breath. No. The mere fact of Silver’s presence was not an excuse to slip back into habits he’d sworn he was going to break. “What happened last night?” he asked. 

“Do you mean just how badly wrecked are you under that uniform, or -?” Silver asked. 

“The men I was fighting,” James asked. He was sitting down again, now, and the pounding headache had at least begun, slowly, to ebb away. He had evidently taken one hell of a hit, although he did not truly remember it. “Did they survive the encounter?” He was dreading the answer, he realized, and had to swallow once again against the nausea that rose in him now that had nothing to do with the head trauma. He had forgotten himself again the night before - had felt the moment that James McGraw had given way to the monster that still lived inside him, and the memory of it sickened him. Jesus bloody Christ, what had he done?

“James?” 

He blinked, and realized that he had missed Silver’s answer entirely, wrapped up in his own guilt and disgust at himself. He winced, and shot an apologetic look Silver’s way. 

“Pardon,” he offered. “Repeat that, please.” Silver blinked, and then frowned, confusion sweeping across his face. 

“I said, they should all have survived, excepting of course the bastard I killed that gave you that head wound. Did you just _apologize?_ To _me?_ ” 

He ignored Silver’s question entirely, focusing instead on the words that came before it.

“They lived?” 

“That’s what I just said,” Silver pointed out warily. “Flint -”

“That’s not my name,” James interjected. He inhaled, suddenly able to breathe again. He had not killed them. The wolf had been loosed, and yet the only casualty last night had fallen not to his blade but to Silver. He exhaled shakily, and pushed a hand through his hair, ignoring the feeling of dried blood at the back of it. He had not given in entirely, then. Still - it had been close. Too goddamned close for him to feel anything other than frustration and a nagging, gnawing sense of guilt and worry and utter disgust eating through him. He had sworn to put Captain Flint to rest, and yet two hits and worry over Thomas and Miranda had turned his resolution to ash. What was it he had told Silver? That darkness usually tried to present itself as necessity? He’d said it, but clearly he had not actually listened to his own advice. The thought sent a fresh wave of anger crashing through him, and he clenched one hand and closed his eyes, trying to get hold of it before it could build once more. He could do better than this. Thomas deserved to have him do better than this. He -

There were eyes on him. He turned and found Silver watching him, his bright, blue eyes riveted on James’ face.

“What the hell are you staring at?” he snapped, disconcerted and somewhat embarrassed to realize that he had an audience to his moment of self-reflection and reproach.

“You,” Silver said baldly. “Christ. No wonder you grew the beard. Are you aware -” 

“If Thomas and Miranda come to harm because you elected to stay and _stare at my face_ instead of going to warn them -” James started, attempting to rise, and Silver reached out and, without ceremony, laid his hand on James’ shoulder, pushing him back down.

“ _Alright._ ” He shook his head. “Christ, I’d forgotten how fucking single-minded you are. I’m going. Try not to -”

James frowned. 

“Wait. You _forgot?_ ” He gave Silver a look that was halfway between confusion and surprise. “How could you _forget?_ We last spoke a little over a month ago.” 

Silver stopped, turning back to look at him, and James felt his stomach sink into his boots at the look on the younger man’s face - surprise, followed by realization, and then chagrin. 

“Fuck,” he said succinctly, and James frowned.

“What-?” he asked, and Silver closed his eyes. 

“God fucking damn it,” he muttered. “Of course. Of _course_ you wouldn’t -” He opened his eyes, head tilting toward the ceiling, and he gave a mirthless laugh. “Of course,” he repeated. He turned back to James. 

“How much do you remember?” he asked, and James frowned harder.

“How much of what?” 

Silver scowled.

“What year was it, when you presumably fucked off and came back here?” he asked, and James frowned. 

“1716,” he answered. “Just before -”

Silver’s face contorted oddly just for a moment and then the younger man turned away, running a hand over his face, his shoulders suddenly tense. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he swore. “So you don’t -”

He turned back, and James started to rise, started to cross the distance between them, forgetting momentarily his aching, pounding head and the various aches and pains littering his body. 

“Silver - what the hell -?” 

Silver shook his head.

“It’s -” He took a deep breath. “It’s a long story. One we don’t have time for. I’ll go and check on the Hamiltons. You stay here and -” He gestured. “I don’t know. Read or something. Meditate. Whatever you do now that you’re -” He gestured again, his hand waving up and down James’ body as if to indicate his general state of being. “Jesus,” he muttered. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” He turned, and James started to rise. 

“Wait -” He started, and then sat back down with a hiss. When he opened his eyes again, Silver had left the room, leaving only silence in his wake. “Damn it,” James muttered, massaging his aching head. What in the hell had he missed?  
***************************************************************  
_“Flint’s dead,” they told him._

_John did not remember the next few days - lost in a haze of drink and grief and Madi’s voice, comforting but distant. When he’d come back to himself, he’d had a new tattoo, a parrot, and a burning hatred for Billy that he could not quench._

_“Flint’s dead,” they’d said. Eaten up at last by age and grief and the booze he’d been turning to more and more often when last he and John had seen each other, and John had never doubted the story. He’d known - of course he had, and yet he’d raged and wept and made a damn fool of himself, closing the tavern early and losing the day’s business. And when he’d gone to sleep that night -_

The street he stood in smelled like piss and beer. It was a sadly familiar scent - one that John had not missed, and yet it was a great deal more grounding than he had ever expected, pulling him slowly back from the edge of shock, pushing his mind into working order once more.

Until now, he’d wondered if he was dreaming.

He’d suspected, of course, that he was not. The sheer overwhelming presence of London had weighed against the notion, and yet there had been some lingering doubt - a sort of feeling that his dreaming mind might have taken him to a place where he had been happier. Younger. And then when he had heard mention of Thomas Hamilton - when he had started this quest - well, it was only natural, wasn’t it, after hearing of the man’s death, to dream about the friend he’d failed? This, though - this was no dream. He could not have dreamed this, because - 

Because he had been expecting Flint. 

The thought was a silly one - akin to a child’s wailing when they discovered for the first time that the world was not a fair place or a kind one, and yet it was what passed through John’s mind over and over again, bringing with it a spike of both shock and bewilderment. When he had first begun looking for his friend, he had been looking for Flint, not McGraw. Flint, who was brilliant and violent and wounded and fascinating. Flint, who had captured John’s attention from the first time he had watched him outmaneuver Singleton and ensnare the crew with the aid of a bloodstained piece of paper. Flint, whom he had fought beside, bled for - who knew what John had done and could, now that he was restored to himself properly, either forgive John his crimes or put him out of his misery. 

He was passing by a carpenter’s shop, and he kicked disconsolately at a piece of wood as he passed by, sending it careening back toward the shop from whence it had come. It served him right - of course it did. He had assumed a great many things when he had started out this quest to find his friend. He had assumed, for starters, that the man he found would be the man he remembered - the man he had vowed, twenty years earlier by his own reckoning, to support and save, if necessary, from himself. Thus far he had needed saving, alright, but not of the kind that John had anticipated. Far from it, if what he had seen of Fli - of _James_ so far was indicative of his general state of being. The man he had seen this morning - 

He sat down, the stone of the low wall he had been passing digging into his arse unheeded, and he passed a hand over his face, his mission temporarily forgotten. The man he had spoken to in that room this morning was Flint, and yet he was not. John was having difficulty processing the difference, and yet it was there, right in front of him, staring out of green eyes that were somehow less angry, less weary, less haunted than he had ever seen them. It was in the apology the man had offered him for not paying attention. It was in the fact that he’d said the word _fuck_ all of once since he’d woken, in the odd, clipped sound of some of his words, reverted back to an accent that John had only ever heard him use when issuing orders aboard the ship. It was a remnant, he now realized, of the man’s past in the Navy, a hanger-on that he had not previously even wondered if Flint might have missed, so used had he been to the rougher, broader accent Flint had used when John had known him. Most jarringly unfamiliar, though, was the fact that four men had attacked James Flint last night and three of them had survived to tell the tale. And the fear in James’ voice when he’d asked what had happened to those same men -

It was almost as startling as the lack of lines on his face - the smooth brow, the furrows that had only just started to form around his mouth - the disconcerting youth of the man that Silver only remembered as an experienced sailor with the weight of the world on his shoulders, aged before his time by grief. Christ, he was young. James had said it about John, but he himself marveled at the corresponding revelation. The man who had been Flint was, in fact, no older than Silver had been when they had first met - in fact, John would have lain coin on him being a few years younger still. Which meant that in ten years’ time - 

In ten years’ time, the man that John had just met would be perhaps forty-three, fully fourteen years younger than John had been when he had gone to sleep to wake in a time he barely recalled, with a leg he barely remembered how to walk on, and a thousand - no, two thousand questions running through his head, facing a friend he felt he had forgotten more about than he had ever known. Christ - how in the hell was he meant to relate to the man now, with so much between them that James plainly did not remember? Furthermore, how could he possibly keep this version of James out of trouble when he did not understand the thoughts running through his head? 

All of it, he suddenly thought with something strongly resembling irritation, had begun with Thomas bloody Hamilton. It was he that had started this entire chain of events - his loss that had given rise to Captain Flint, and his influence, apparently, that had turned everything John knew about his friend on its head, and since the man was apparently the center of the entire puzzle, he could fucking well explain what the hell was going on, both with James and in general. John stood up, mind made up, scanning the street for a hackney. Thomas Hamilton was about to answer a few questions, including who the hell he was, what he looked like, and what the fuck was so fascinating about him that his mere presence was enough to do this - to take the man John had known and turn him into this person he barely recognized, in body or mind. 

“Albemarle Street,” he instructed the driver as he climbed into the hackney. “The crest with two ships and threes stars quartered.”  
****************************************  
_The road to Windsor, twenty miles outside London:_

“‘Ey - settle down back there!” 

The thumping he had heard moments before quietened. The carriage continued to bump along the road, and the man driving it settled back into his seat. 

“Damn noble pain in the arse,” he muttered. He transferred the reins to one hand, using the other to pull his cloak closer about him, cursing the rain under his breath as more of it came pelting down, making the trip more miserable than it had been to start with. They were heading into summer, and the roads certainly showed it, he thought irritably, lifting the reins and bringing them down sharply in an effort to get the horses to move a trifle faster through the thick, heavy mud. They would never reach Windsor before dusk at this pace.

There was a sound of a door opening, and he turned, looking downward, to find his partner, the hood of his cloak pulled over his head and his hands wrapped in cloth, swinging his way into the driver’s seat. 

“What the bloody ‘ell d’you think you’re doing?” he asked, surprised. “You’re supposed to be staying in the carriage with her Ladyship, aren’t you? You should -”

“You,” said a distinctly female voice from under the hood, “should rest your horses.” A pistol clicked, and he froze, feeling the barrel dig into his ribs. Miranda Hamilton pushed the hood off of her head, and smiled, her dark eyes fixed on him, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a fox that had just cornered its quarry. “Now,” she said, deceptively pleasantly for a woman who was currently threatening to kill him, “perhaps you would care to tell me where we’re headed. Your friend wasn’t very talkative.”


	11. Decisions and Detente

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked for some encouragement, and boy did you all deliver! Because of all of the lovely comments and kudos I've received on this in the past few days, I've finished so much more of this fic, despite work having been a bear lately and life getting a little crazy otherwise. Thank you all! Here's the next chapter, all shiny and polished. Again - comments and kudos are so, so appreciated and really help to keep me going faster. Enjoy!

He had come home in a daze. The world was spinning, and Thomas’ head spun with it, his mind entirely editing out the drive as he attempted not to be ill with the fear and anger and guilt that numbed his lips and sent his stomach churning. He did not remember how he had gotten into the carriage, nor how he had gotten into the house, although he had a vague memory of Hobbs’ hands helping him in and of begging the man to check the surrounding alleyways for signs of James. He had returned and shaken his head, a look of defeat on his face.

“I’m sorry, my lord. There’s no sign of the Captain beyond -” He gestured to the hat in Thomas’ hands, and Thomas felt as though something in his stomach unclenched. He was not dead, then. He had gotten away, or been taken alive - he had to have, because Miranda was missing, and it was all coming apart, just as it had done last time, only this time it wasn’t James that had been left to pick up the pieces. This time it was Thomas, and he was not equipped for this - not ready to face a world in which both of the people he loved were gone, taken from him by forces outside of his control, and it occurred to him suddenly and horribly that James had not been either. The terror coursing through him now - was this what James and Miranda had felt the night he had been stolen from them? Was this - Dear God on High, was this what they had gone through? 

No. No, he reminded himself - this could be nothing next to the anguish and the raw grief he had seen in James’ and Miranda’s eyes the day they had told him of their lives in the wake of his imprisonment and death. What Thomas felt now was fear - raw and undeniable, causing his heart to pound and his muscles to seize, but it was not the terror that Miranda had undoubtedly faced when - when - 

He clenched his fist. They had taken Miranda. He had never considered himself a violent man, but the very idea of Miranda being manhandled out of their carriage - threatened with the death of a man loyal to them both to ensure her good behavior - It was despicable, and the thought of James being injured - being taken as well…

His wife and their lover had turned pirate for him - because they had lost him. He had understood the idea - had even flattered himself that he understood something of the desperation that had driven them to it, but he had not. Standing in the fog, holding James’ hat in one hand and what he could only presume was a ransom note for Miranda in the other, Thomas Hamilton felt a cold chill run down his spine, true understanding washing over him. If _anyone_ had harmed James or Miranda - 

He shook himself, breathing hard, and ran a shaking hand through his hair. He was not James, or Miranda. He was not given to rage, but the feeling coursing through his veins was perhaps the closest he would ever come to feeling that particular emotion, and it shook him. For one moment he had lost track of who and what he had endeavored to be all of his life, and the notion that it should overtake him - 

It was not going to happen - not now, not ever, because he was going to find them. He had no idea what bottomless well of intrigue this particular gambit had sprung from, or what drinking from that well might earn him, but it did not matter, not with their lives on the line. He turned to Hobbs, his mind made up, his blood on fire with anger and fear and all of it overlaid with iron-hard resolve. He was going to set this right. 

“Take me to my father’s home,” he had told Hobbs. “I will need his papers. I -” He looked up and down the street, and then down at the letter in his hand. “Take me home,” he repeated, and Hobbs had nodded.

“Aye, sir.” 

He had not slept, not that night, nor the morning that followed it. He had ignored the questioning looks of the servants - had refused breakfast - had, in fact, ensconced himself in his father’s study, pulling books from the shelves, paging through account ledgers -

And gotten nowhere, thus far. That was the worst of it. He had come charging into his father’s study intending to do war - intending to find something that would prove to be Miranda and James’ salvation. To appear in front of his lovers’ captors and - 

And there, he thought wretchedly, was the problem. He had no idea what in the hell he was going to do - not the slightest inkling of where to begin, much less how to proceed from there. Hell - he did not even know which Churchill he was dealing with. It was perfectly possible that he faced the entire family. 

He ran his fingers over the letter once more, staring at the crest on the wax. Churchill - John and Sarah Churchill, better known as the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough. He was, in an odd way, not truly surprised, he supposed. After all, Miranda had - 

He swallowed hard against the wave of fear that threatened to wash over him, making his hands shake and his breath stop in his throat. He could not give in to this - not now. His wife had pointed out the Duchess’ presence the night of his father’s death. He remembered it vividly now, and cursed himself for a fool at the remembrance. Why, why had he not thought to chase the lead that she had offered him? Why had he been such a colossal idiot as to -

He scrubbed his hands through his hair again. He was not doing either Miranda or James any good this way. He had to concentrate. He needed a plan. A good, solid -

“My lord?” 

He jumped, startled, and turned, to find his father’s chamberlain standing in the doorway, his eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline at the mess Thomas had created in Alfred’s formerly nearly impeccable study. 

“My lord -” the man started again, looking around. “Ah - there seems to be -that is -”

“Yes, I know, it’s a disaster,” Thomas acknowledged wearily. “Please, Neville - what is it?” 

The older man’s expression softened.

“You have a visitor, my lord. He says he knows where Captain McGraw is to be found.” 

Thomas took two steps forward, dropping the ledger in his hands, his attention suddenly entirely focused on the chamberlain.

“ _What?_ ” 

“A Mr. John Silver, my lord.”  
************************************  
“Good boy.”

The horse Miranda was speaking to nickered, and she petted his nose, taking a moment to simply breathe. She was still shaking - her hands trembled like an old woman’s, and she could feel the rest of her following suit. She massaged her hands, still partially bound, and ran them over her hair, gratified to find that it was still in some semblance of order, not hanging about her face. 

The man sitting in the carriage thumped against the walls, and she shot a glance at him, shaking her head. 

“You’ve only yourself to blame, you know,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll either break free or be found by evening.” She ignored the muffled curses that greeted her pronouncement, and turned back to the horse. “He’s very loud, isn’t he?” she asked. “You have my sympathies.” 

She was not sure what had possessed her, in retrospect. When she had first come to the decision to escape, she had not stopped to think about the matter. Her course had seemed clear - act, or be used against Thomas and James, to the potential detriment of them all. The poor fool in the carriage with her had not even seemed to realize that anything had changed until the moment she had wrapped her bonds around his neck and squeezed, her arms suddenly possessed of a strength she had not previously suspected herself of having. He was still alive - at least, she thought he was, although from the blue cast to his face right before she had let go, she was not certain she had not done him permanent damage. Part of her hoped she had - the foul creature had, after all, been giving her a most unpleasant look, less of a watchful gaze and more of a leer. No more than he deserved, she thought savagely. Maybe now George Churchill would have the good sense to instruct his lackeys to keep their hands off of her as they valued their lives. 

She felt another shiver travel down her spine, and she rested her forehead against the horse’s neck. She had her answer, or at least part of it. The man who had ordered her abduction was Lord Admiral George Churchill, brother of the Duke of Marlborough and brother-in-law to his wife, Sarah. She knew who she faced. Now, though - 

She raised her head again, looking the horse in the eye.

“I’m not certain whether he deserves a bullet in the head or a medal,” she murmured. On one hand, she was absolutely certain that she had the Churchill family to thank for the removal of Alfred from their lives, and on the other…

She needed to know why she had been taken from their carriage. She needed to know where James was, whether he was alright, and what their plans were regarding Thomas, and she knew exactly where she could obtain her answers. And yet - 

Thomas would be worried. James, if he was not injured or captured as she had been, would be out of his mind with panic over her safety. If she turned back now - if she took the carriage and made the trip to London - she could be back in the space of a half day. She could be back in her husband’s arms - could allow him and James to take the lead as she had always done, while she murmured advice into their ears and begged to be heard when they were doing something stupid. 

She looked at the men that sat, bound and gagged inside the carriage, and she felt a jolt of anger travel through her. No. She was not going back to being that Miranda - not now, not anymore. She had done this - she, Miranda Barlow Hamilton. She, who had survived ten years of exile, who had lived without Thomas and functionally without James for all that time. She had, she realized with a sort of cold clarity, reached a turning point, sometime in the past few hours - at the precise moment, she suddenly understood, when she had reached out to save herself, nearly killing a man with so little compunction it took her breath away. She was not Lady Hamilton. That woman was dead, and the woman who was currently standing on the road between Windsor and London, her hand fisted in the horse’s mane, mud splattered on her skirts and rope still wrapped around her wrists, had no intention of turning back to allow others to take the lead this time. George Churchill lived in Windsor, and she intended to wring her answers out of him with her own two bloodied hands if necessary. Her decision made, she set about releasing one of the horses from the traces, checking its tack and saddling it before gathering her skirts up and swinging herself up and onto the animal. She would start by going to pay a visit to Kitty Ashe and her daughter. They could offer her food and shelter while she constructed a plan. 

“Get up,” she ordered, squeezing the horse’s sides with her heels, and the horse began to move, leaving the carriage sitting behind her as she headed west.  
**********************************************  
Thomas Hamilton, as it turned out, was not at the house on Albemarle Street. John had spent ten minutes pulling the full story out of the reluctant head butler, and a further half hour getting to the correct address - an impressive edifice that somehow made him want to turn around and leave the moment he looked at it, and that he had been told had belonged to the elderly Lord Hamilton. Looking at the place, John could not help but wonder how the man James had spoken of - the visionary, clever, good, bloody infuriating Thomas - could have come from a place such as this. It spoke of a certain fortitude, and against his will John felt a spark of admiration and even understanding. Survival and adherence to one’s own nature under such conditions took willpower, he knew - none better. 

“John Silver to see Lord Hamilton,” he introduced himself, and withstood the butler’s dubious expression. “He’s expecting me.”

“I highly doubt -”

“That he would appreciate you second-guessing his intentions. Yes. You’re right. I couldn’t agree more.” He smiled pleasantly at the man, and then grinned when he was shown into the house.

The inside, he discovered, was every bit as foreboding as the outside. Something about the thankfully late Alfred Hamilton’s house was just dark - whether it was because of the layout of the rooms, or the lingering shade of the bastard himself, John could not have said, but either way he felt a shiver run up his spine. The sooner he, and by extension Thomas, were out of this place, the better. He stood, waiting impatiently while he was announced, and then quite suddenly he was in the study, eyes taking in the man that James had called both his lover and his friend.

“So,” he said cheerfully, “You’re the man I fought a war over.” 

Thomas was - John was not sure how to describe the man, in all truth. He was tall, and blond, just as James had once described him. In the pale morning light, John could see that his eyes were blue, although of a less intense shade than John’s own, and he appeared to have had a rough night, judging by the rumpled hair, the bags under his eyes, and the general mess in his father’s study.

“Mister Silver?” he asked, and John cocked his head. Interesting. Somehow he had pictured Thomas Hamilton as having a different voice - deeper, perhaps, or simply less… something. 

“You know,” he said, “I’d pictured you differently somehow. When he talked about you, he made it sound like you were some kind of bloody saint.” Thomas winced, and John felt a jolt of satisfaction travel through him at the gesture. Good. Let him be uncomfortable with the picture that John was intent on painting for him. 

“You know where James is?” he asked, and John nodded. 

“I do,” he answered. “He’s safe, for the moment, no thanks to whatever mess you’ve managed to get him into this time.” Another wince, and another vicious thrill at the gesture. 

“He’s not injured, or -?” 

“Oh I wouldn’t say that,” John answered. “When I left he’d only just woken up. He’d passed out after some stupid fuck hit him in the head with a pistol, you see, and if I’m any judge, and I think I am, he’s got a sprained knee that will take a week or two to heal. I’d imagine he’ll be covered in bruises for at least a few days if not longer. Well done, Lord Hamilton. Once again, you’ve managed to land everyone in the shit.” 

Thomas closed his eyes, either in horror or in thanks for James’ safety, and John watched him, his arms crossed. When Thomas opened his eyes again, he looked weary.

“Where is he?” he asked, and John shook his head.

“Oh no. I’m not telling you _shit_ until you tell me what the fuck is going on, what you’ve done, and how you’re planning on fucking cleaning up your own mess.” 

He had not planned on this. He had walked through the door intending to get Thomas’ measure without openly antagonizing the man, but the longer he stood here, the more angry he was. Here, in front of him, was the man that had fucked up James’ life so badly all those years ago. Here was the man that had turned his friend into a hollowed-out shell of a person, bent on vengeance without thought for the cost. Here, wailed some treacherous, angry, heartbroken part of himself, stood the reason that John had spent so many years trying to pull James Flint out of the spiral of grief and pain and failed so very badly, and for what? A lost cause that the man had put more effort into than any care he might have had for James or his wife. All of a sudden he wanted to shout - wanted to rail at the man, to demand to know who the hell he thought he was to fuck up so many people’s lives like this. He wanted - 

He wanted to know why the bastard was smiling at him.

“Sorry, have I started speaking in tongues?” he asked caustically. “I _said-_ ”

“I heard you,” Thomas answered. “It’s good to know that James has someone else who cares about him. I owe you a great deal for that - almost as much as I owe him.” 

John gaped.

“You thought I was going to argue with you,” Thomas observed dryly.

“Well - yes,” John admitted.

Thomas sighed and raked a hand through his hair, mussing it further. “I’m well aware of what I’ve done, even if I’ve not lived most of it,” he said quietly. He looked up. “I don’t suppose there’s any possibility of putting this discussion off for another day?” 

John scowled, and Thomas nodded.

“Very well. You’ve a right to be angry, of course.” He looked at John frankly, his eyes raking over him with the same kind of curiosity that had led John here. “He’s told me a lot about you,” he offered. “Including what you’ve done for him, and what you lost for it. I know I can’t possibly repair that damage, but -” 

“Wait - he’s told you?” 

Thomas gave him an odd look. 

“Yes of course,” he answered, and John felt his face contort into an incredulous expression. 

“We are talking about the same person?” he asked, and Thomas gave a low chuckle.

“Yes,” he answered. “I would hope so, anyway. God help the world if there were two of James!” 

His laugh was - well. It might have been the first good thing John had found about the man. It softened his face - made him suddenly look less of a stuck up ponce and more the person that James had told him about. The thought made him angrier if possible. The reckless idiot that had started this shouldn’t have a smile that brightened the room. He shouldn’t be laughing, especially not now. 

“You know what he’s done for you - in your name - and you’re laughing?” he asked, and Thomas sobered.

“It’s either laugh or cry, Mr. Silver, and with the month I’ve had -” 

John raised an eyebrow. He looked around the room slowly, his eyes taking in the furnishings and the sheer lavish grandeur of the place.

“Yes,” he drawled. “I’m sure you have a great deal to weep over.” 

That got the reaction he’d been looking for. Thomas frowned, something flashing in his blue eyes, and Silver stood his ground, allowing the taller man to frown all he liked.

“More than enough,” Thomas answered, a note of warning in his voice. 

“Oh yes,” Silver goaded. He could feel his heart beating faster, the tingle of adrenaline and anger fueling him as he leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the other man, his lip curling upward in derision. “I’m certain the death of your miserable shit of a father was _very_ difficult. Tell me, did you orchestrate it yourself, or did you let James do your dirty work agai-” 

Thomas took two steps toward him (and Christ he was tall, John registered, as his long legs covered the distance. James had never mentioned that). He reached out with one hand, and John stopped, looking downward as the taller man latched onto the front of his coat and pulled him upward and closer to himself. 

“In the past two months,” Thomas snapped, his voice low, “I have lost one of my dearest friends. I have woken up to find that my wife and my lover have been through horrors I can only begin to imagine. I have sat, helpless and fucking _useless_ while they try to find some way back to themselves after what they have endured. My wife is currently missing - taken by the same people I now suspect murdered my father, and on that subject, yes, Mr. Silver, I’m very much certain that through my attempts to safeguard Miranda and James, I have once again set in motion the events that led to his untimely demise. If you think that I do not deeply regret the harm my actions have caused to the people I love, or that I am willing to stand here and listen to you cast aspersions on the nature of my relationship with James when I have spent all night wondering if he’s alive or dead, then you are _very_ much mistaken. You say you know where James is. Tell me. Please.” 

He was breathing hard, and up close, John could see his eyes in exquisite detail. Thomas Hamilton, he realized - 

Was not lying. He was angry, he was frightened, and above all else, he was saddened and frustrated as hell. The realization took the wind from his sails, and abruptly, he felt the anger drain from him, at least in part. James, he realized with a touch of wry irony, had excellent taste in men, and in this one in particular, stupid noble fool though he was with his gratitude and apologies for things he had no control over. Silver grinned, the expression much less forced now than it would have been an hour earlier.

“So,” he said, ignoring Thomas’ fist, which was still wrapped around the front of John’s coat, his knuckles digging into his chest, “you _do_ care about them.” 

Thomas’ face contorted, and he regarded Silver with an incredulous expression the equal of Silver’s own. 

“What?” he asked, and John shrugged.

“I was never certain,” he answered. “He didn’t say much, and from what I gathered, you were either the most noble idiot on the face of the planet, or the most callous son of a bitch I’d ever heard of. Congratulations. You may be an idiot but you’re not the heedless shit I first took you for.” 

Thomas let go of his coat abruptly. He took a step back, and closed his eyes once more. When he opened them, his face had sort of - scrunched itself up, frown lines forming between his brows, his mouth open a fraction. The expression, John had to admit, was rather endearing, now that he was willing to grant the man points for that sort of thing.

“That was a test?” Thomas asked. Silver tugged on his clothing, setting it to rights, and flashed him a grin.

“Oh no,” he answered. “I came in prepared to hate you. You’ve just managed to convince me otherwise. Did I hear you say that your wife is missing?” 

“Yes,” Thomas answered, his tone still bewildered. “I think I’m beginning to understand why James said he spent the first two months of your acquaintance trying not to kill you. Do you do this to everyone the first time you meet them?” 

“That depends on what I want from them,” John answered. “We should return to James. I’ve locked the door behind me, but we both know him well enough to know that won’t last, and he’s already got a nasty head wound. Wouldn’t want him to injure himself looking for me.” 

He turned and left the room, still grinning, and heard Thomas curse and follow after him. 

“And _I’m_ the one that got locked in Bedlam,” he heard the taller man mutter.  
*****************************************************  
Miranda released the reins with a weary sigh. She hopped down from the saddle, her hands going automatically to massage her aching rear end. It had been a long journey, but she had finally found her way to Windsor, and now she longed for nothing more than a warm bath and, if not a fresh set of clothing, then at least the ability to wash her own things. Not, of course, that she anticipated any such hardship from the house of the woman who had, until her exile from London, been a great friend and confidant of hers. Katharine Ashe, despite her husband’s departure, had elected to remain in London, now as in her previous life, and it was to her that Miranda turned now as the closest source of refuge. She made some small effort at brushing the mud off of her dress, and patted her hair. There were still red marks around her wrists from being bound, but there was nothing to be done about those, or about the roughness of the cloak she had taken from Churchill’s hapless lackeys.

She had not gone visiting much, in the past few months. It had not, she was sure, gone unremarked, and she was certain that this appearance would cement her reputation as a woman gone mad, but she found that she truly did not care. If she had her way, they would all be out of England soon enough anyway, and whatever scandal she managed to create would disappear with her. 

“Lady Hamilton?” The stablehand that spoke to her sounded hesitant, almost disbelieving, and she turned to him with a short, tight smile.

“Yes. Andrew, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Be so good as to tell Lady Ashe I’m here, would you?” 

“Of course, Ma’am. Would you like -?” 

“I’ll go to her immediately,” she interrupted him, sparing him the awkward question that was sure to follow. “I’m aware I must look a fright, but I’ve some rather urgent news and a request to make, if she’ll see me.” 

“Yes, Ma’am. Excuse me. I’ll just -” He took the reins from her hands, leading the horse away toward the stables, and she straightened her clothing once again before walking toward the house. She was admitted by the somewhat startled looking butler, who led her into the house, through the front hall, and into a parlor.

“My lady?” 

“Yes?” The voice that emanated from behind the door was one that she had not heard in over a decade, and she bit her lip, looking upward at the ceiling. She had not done Kitty Ashe any favors lately. Peter would be in no more danger in Jamaica than he would have been in the Carolinas, but the position was undeniably less prestigious and the task ahead of him harder in some ways. She could only hope that her former friend would not hold the change against her or Thomas.

“Lady Hamilton has arrived, my lady. She requests -”

The door opened, and Miranda caught sight of Lady Katharine, who looked straight at her, her dark brown eyes that were so much like her daughter’s wide and alarmed. 

“Miranda?” she asked, and Miranda gave her a wan smile. 

“Kitty,” she greeted. “I’m sorry to have come without warning, but -”

“My God - Lady Hamilton, what’s happened to you?” 

The voice that came from behind Kitty stole her voice from her, her throat suddenly refusing to produce sound. She looked over her friend’s shoulder at the other woman, suddenly breathing harder, anger and fear mixing as she attempted to find her composure again. At last, she answered, her voice hard enough to have split diamonds.

“I should think you know all too well, your Grace.”


	12. Where the Tall Fig Tree Grew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long it's been since last chapter, but chapter 13 simply did not want to behave. It still hasn't, but I think I've managed to move past the writer's block that was keeping me from writing it and Thanksgiving is now over, so I'm hoping I can get back on track with this. Here's chapter 12 - hope you enjoy it!

John Silver, Thomas thought, was not at all what he had expected.

He was not sure what to make of him - this man that had, from what James had said, attempted to put together what was left of James after Miranda’s death. This man, who had faced torture and death and come out the other side more serious and infinitely more stubborn and loyal to James and his crew to the point of lunacy. When James had described his quartermaster, he had painted quite a picture. The man, he had said, was quick and clever - an opportunist of the first caliber. Now that Thomas had met him, he could think of several other appellations. Mercurial, came to mind, as did infectiously cheerful and, well - slippery little shit. James, he thought, had possibly understated that part a bit, but then James had not been in the position of being raked over the proverbial coals by the man. 

He was younger than Thomas had expected, and older all at the same time. The latter, he attributed to the simple fact that John Silver, like James and Miranda, was not entirely what he seemed. He had, it seemed, come back in time as well, although from what time, Thomas was not altogether sure. There was something in his eyes - something darker, somehow, and more weary than he had seen from anyone other than James, who had apparently spent the past ten years from his own point of view perpetually exhausted. Silver covered it well - his grin was a brilliant, distracting thing. It demanded attention, drawing Thomas’ gaze away from the man’s eyes, and yet it was his eyes that told the real story. 

“How far back is this, for you?” he asked, and saw Silver miss a step.

“What?” he asked, and Thomas raised one eyebrow.

“It’s obvious enough,” he said. “You talk about James in the past tense. You say that he never said much about me - as if you hadn’t had the chance to press him for quite some time, whereas when he speaks of you, it’s in the present. If you spoke to him regularly, you would have said that he never says much. Therefore - you are from further in the future than he. Substantially further, if I’m any judge. What happened?” 

John gaped, and Thomas felt satisfaction wash over him. He’d managed to shock the man. It was a small victory - a petty one, even, but he found that he could not bring himself to care. He was owed at least that much after this morning’s interrogation.

“You - Christ, he said you were fucking smart,” Silver answered, seeming to get his breath back. 

“One tries,” Thomas answered dryly, and Silver flashed him another grin. 

“And you’re a sarcastic bastard. We’re not so different after all.” 

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, it’s not. We’re here.” Silver turned away, fumbling with the keys to the door. He frowned. “To be honest, I’d expected to find the door broken off its hinges by now,” he murmured. He looked over his shoulder at Thomas, an odd expression flickering over his face, and Thomas frowned in return. 

“Mr. Silver -” he started, and then stopped, as the door opened to reveal James, who was sitting on the bed just inside the door. He rose at the sight of Thomas, and Thomas felt a wave of relief wash over him, even as his eyes took in his lover’s bruised face and weary countenance. 

“Thomas.” The relief in James’ voice matched Thomas’ own. 

“James,” he breathed, and moved forward. “Thank God.” He wrapped both arms around his lover, ignoring the blood and dirt staining his clothing, and felt James’ arms envelop him, holding on tightly. 

“I’m fine,” he heard James murmur and he gave a huff of laughter.

“You’d say that if you were clinging onto life with one finger,” he murmured, and heard James laugh.

“So would you.” 

“Yes, I expect I would. How’s the headache? John told me.” 

“I’ve had worse.” 

“Let me see.”  
*************************************************************************  
He was more relieved than he could properly have expressed to see Thomas’ face.

He had been sitting in Silver’s room for the past three hours. The headache had begun to lessen after the first hour and the nausea after the second, and yet James had not risen from the mattress, his head spinning, thoughts coming and going through his mind over and over again.

He was afraid, he had realized abruptly. For the first time since he had returned to 1705, he was petrified - truly, stomach-churningly scared. The feeling was a familiar one, but no more welcome for its familiarity than a bout of tropical fever would have been. 

He had been through this before. The sense of foreboding. The realization that he was in over his head. The feeling of his stomach dropping through his boots as he understood the kind of danger he and his lovers faced. The first time had been in Admiral Hennessey’s office. He had rushed home - to the mansion he had come to think of as his home as much as the tiny room he’d inhabited before - and found -

“He’s gone,” they’d told him, and James had felt a part of him scream denial as if a part of his soul had been lopped off at the words. He could not help but wonder if he would hear the same words pass Silver’s lips when he returned - if he would once again face the prospect of losing the ones he cared about most. What if -?

Christ Jesus, what if they were already dead? Their unknown foe had already attempted to have James himself killed. What if -?

The door had opened at precisely that moment, and he had looked up to find Thomas standing in the doorway, his blond hair in disarray and his clothing in a similar state, but very undeniably alive and well, and James had shelved his contemplations, rising to his feet immediately. 

“Thomas,” he murmured, and saw an expression of similar relief cross his lover’s face.

“James.”

Five minutes later, he found himself sitting once again as Thomas examined his various injuries, fussing quite ridiculously, and James attempted to shoo his fingers away from his injured head once again. 

“It’s not that bad,” he insisted once again, and he could practically feel the incredulous look that Thomas shot him in response. 

“Dear God, James,” he returned, examining the injury. “You’re lucky you’re not dead.” 

“I’m perfectly fine,” he assured his lover again quietly. Thomas frowned. 

“You bloody well are not,” he insisted. “You’ve got a lump here the size of a golf ball. How hard did they hit you?”

“Hard enough that I’d started to wonder if he was going to wake,” Silver interjected, and James turned an accusing glare on him. He snorted. 

“Don’t give me that look,” he said. “The man asked. It’s not my fault if you didn’t want to tell him the truth.” The little shit had always had the most damnable timing. 

“I’m fine,” James insisted. 

“We’ll let the doctor be the judge of that,” Thomas answered firmly, and James distinctly saw Silver give Thomas an approving expression. James rolled his eyes. 

“Fine,” he answered, giving in. “But I’m telling you -”

“At the very least he can see to your knee,” Silver interjected. “You’re not going much of anywhere on that without some kind of brace or a lot of rest.” 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Thomas said, gesturing to John. “If you won’t listen to me, then listen to your quartermaster,” he said, ignoring John’s startled expression. 

“He’s quite right,” Thomas continued, and James sighed. 

“I’ve already agreed, Thomas, there’s no need to belabor the point. Go ahead and find a doctor. I suppose it goes without saying that I want one that’s seen actual injuries before?” 

“I know of one or two,” Thomas assured him. 

“Good. We’ll need you functional,” Silver answered, and James shot him a look. 

“Why? What’s the matter?” 

Thomas shot John a look. He shrugged. 

“It had to come out eventually,” he apologized, and James felt his stomach lurch. He looked between his lover and his friend, frowning despite the way it worsened the headache.

“What?” he asked. “Thomas - is Miranda -?” 

“I’m sure she’s being kept safe,” his lover said.

“They wouldn’t have much leverage otherwise,” John agreed, and James turned sharply, looking at Thomas, who gave him a look of mixed misery and attempted reassurance. 

“James -” he started.

“She’s been taken?” he asked, his voice gone hard, and Thomas nodded. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a moment before he answered, his voice suddenly rough.

“Yes. We had come out to find you. Miranda thought you might have been waylaid, so we came to either find you or offer you a ride -” 

James listened to the tale, the blood roaring in his ears. The bastards had taken Miranda. He had Thomas here - one out of his two lovers, but Miranda - their Miranda - was missing, and he had been sleeping. He had been here, while she was in danger. Here, while she was forcibly dragged from a carriage and taken to God alone knew where. She was in danger, and he -

He felt ill. Miranda was missing. It was happening again, and he had not stopped it. While he had been playing at being merciful - at restraining himself in hopes that the world would relent at last- history had been repeating itself. No more. Not again - he could not do this again. He had lost her once and it had nearly destroyed him. To do so again - 

The prospect was unbearable. He could feel something in his chest tighten - could feel his heart start to beat faster, his palms itching for a sword, a gun - a damn grenade, anything at all. He was going to find them. He was going to find them and rip them to fucking _shreds_ for this.

“Who?” He ground the word out, and Thomas flinched.

“The Churchills. They left a note -” 

James looked at the piece of paper that Thomas dug out of his waistcoat pocket, but did not read it. He could feel rage boiling its way to the surface of his mind again, and he did not struggle against it this time - could not. They had Miranda. They had Miranda, and they intended to use her to God alone knew what ends and he -

He was not about to let it happen. 

“The Churchills,” he growled. “Lord and Lady fucking Churchill, the Duke and Duchess.” Thomas nodded.

“Yes. I don’t know what their game is, but -”

“It doesn’t matter,” James answered. He stood, looking around the room for his discarded coat, and the sword belt that accompanied it. He would need both, as well as his pistol, and possibly a visit to the local gunsmith for ammunition and a spare weapon. If he hurried, he could obtain the necessary supplies quickly and be on the road within the hour. He knew where the Churchill estate was in London - he would start there, and move on if necessary to -

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”  
******************************************************  
The realization had hit him out of the clear blue.

He had not been expecting it. In all the hours of staring at James' unconscious form, he had not anticipated this. He had sat, giddy anticipation and dread gathering in him in equal measure as he waited for the older man to wake - to either finally bury the hatchet between them or kill him on the spot, he wasn't sure which might occur, and when James had woken -

Christ, the universe was such a bitch. He had been prepared for anything - anything but the look on James' face, the wary suspicion mixed with relief. Relief! Christ, of all things, for that man to be relieved to see _him_. He should have known, he thought bitterly, and yet he had kept babbling - kept talking until he knew, kept talking as if it would somehow protect him from the reality that James did not remember what had gone between them. As if it would cushion him against the loss of the possibility of some kind of resolution for the terrible, gnawing thing that had been eating him from the inside out for twenty years. As if -

It had been one hell of a blow, that much was certain, and for a time, John had reeled from it. He had gone to Thomas’ home with that sense of wounded grief running through him - had all but accused the man of being responsible for the ills of the world in his anger and his pain. He missed James Flint - the man’s quick wit, his scheming, his breathtaking ability to command a situation - and it had taken a blow of equal magnitude to interrupt him and his knee-jerk reaction to the situation. 

He had never expected to find his friend happy. 

He had never seen that look on James’ face, he thought as he looked at the man from his position in the chair in the far corner. He had retreated there the moment that Thomas had entered the room - the moment that James had spotted him and they had rushed toward each other, like twin waterspouts in a storm determined to wrap around one another and form one. He had watched them embrace, had listened to them speak to each other in a low murmur, and he had stayed in his small corner of the room, watching, waiting - and slowly, incrementally, coming to a startling realization.

He had never seen James like this. Not ever - not since the first moment he had lain eyes on the man aboard the Walrus. He had seen him laugh - had seen him smile, but not like this. He had watched him with Gates, and to some extent with Miranda Barlow, and thought then that he understood what the man looked like when he was enjoying life. That, he now knew, had been a gross underestimation. The man he had seen then had been amused, or pleased with circumstances as they stood, at best, but the edge of pain and misery had not truly gone. This, though - 

He watched with a sense of wonder as James smiled, mouth turned upward at both corners, his green eyes suddenly possessed of a warmth he had never seen in Flint. _This_ was something else entirely - as if he were looking at an entirely different man, one that he had long wanted to meet but had not until just now. This James was not tired. He was not angry, or frightened - not searching for something, anything to cling to in a desperate attempt to remain human. He was not adrift as he had been at the end, drowning his demons in a bottle. He was whole, for perhaps the very first time since John had met him - happy, he understood finally, and the revelation shocked him to his very marrow, freezing him to the spot. This - was a version of his friend that he had not prepared himself for, and yet -

And yet he found that he did not mind. He had thought, this morning, that he wanted his friend back. He had mourned the man he had known - had been mourning him for years, truth be told. It had seemed like a cruel irony that he should be deposited back in time to find his friend only to find him so changed, but this - 

He could sit and simply watch this all day. He had never seen James like this, but he wanted to - for the rest of their lives, if possible, and if it took losing the memory of over a decade of pain to accomplish it, then he thanked whatever trickster god had seen fit to do this for his friend. He was not quite certain what to do with his newfound understanding - nothing at all, perhaps, save to smile to himself as he watched Thomas fuss over the dried blood in James’ hair and the corresponding bruise on his forehead from where he had hit the ground rather hard. 

The look of relief and of love on James’ face -

John sat, a lump forming in his throat. He would do whatever he had to to preserve this, he realized suddenly. The look on James’ face was worth the effort, no matter the cost, and he swallowed hard, mentally tucking away the grief that had threatened to swallow him whole since that morning. This man was not the one he had known, no, and John did not care. He had James back, in a way that he had never, ever expected to, and he was not going to throw that away, whether out of guilt or through his usual attempts at manipulation. Captain Flint was gone.

Captain Flint could _stay_ gone. 

The idea had taken hold of him, and it was what led him now to stand in front of James, his blue eyes gone hard.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he asked, and saw James startle at the sound of his voice. 

“Silver -” he started, and John shook his head.

“I’m fairly sure you know my name,” he said. “You can use it instead of trying to act like we’re not friends. Where the hell do you think you’re going?” 

“You heard what he said. They have Miranda.” 

“Yes - and? You planning on storming their private castle all by yourself?” 

“I’m not going to sit here while they hurt her. I’m not going to let them use her to -”

“And how are you planning on stopping them? Do you even have a plan, or was the plan to go out of here half-cocked, with some insane idea of forcing them into giving her back all by yourself?” 

James stared at him for a moment, and John rolled his eyes. 

“ _Jesus_. That was the plan, wasn’t it?” 

“Well what the fuck do you want me to do?”

“I want you to stop acting like you’re on your own again!" The words broke free before he could stop them, and he stood, panting. "Like you’re Captain Flint again, or did you let those men live because you’ve suddenly forgotten how to use a sword?”

The words hung in the air between them. He stood, facing James, and felt -

"Trust us to help you get her back," he said, reaching forward to take hold of James' arms. "You don't want to do this. Not on your own. Not like this."

"How the hell would you know?" James asked, and John shook his head.

"I do. Don't ask how - please, just -" He swallowed hard. "Don't do this. Don't." He had done this before, he realized - had been on the opposite end of this, and somewhere, somehow, he knew that God was having a laugh, because if this was how James had felt, all those years ago - 

The silence stretched between them for a moment - an interminable, awful moment, and James stood, rage and confusion still swirling in his eyes.

"If this fails -" James started, and John shook his head. No, he thought - this was not going to happen. Not between them. Not again.

“It won't," he assured him. "I won't allow it. Not -" He closed his eyes and then reopened them, looking directly at James. This was not going to happen the way it had before. "You’re not without allies,” he said firmly. “This isn’t 1715. This isn’t Nassau. Stop and think for a few moments, and I think you’ll see that.”

James closed his eyes, and Thomas stood, coming to stand by his side.

“It’s your decision, James,” he said quietly. “But I think on this occasion you might wish to listen to John.” 

His blue eyes were troubled, John could see. He looked at James as he might have at an overly fragile piece of glass - one that might break at any second, and John abruptly wondered if this was the first time he was seeing Captain Flint. He spared a moment of sympathy for the other man and made a mental note to talk with him later, and then refocused on James, his hands tightening on James' arms, and looked his former Captain full in the face, meeting the other man’s gaze as his eyes opened again and fixed on John, startled.

“James,” he asked quietly. “Where are you?” 

********************************************  
He’d come so close to it.

It was an old, familiar sensation - the rage that filled him. It was, in its way, like coming home to an old friend. You are alone, the monster within him whispered. No one will ever accomplish this task half as well as you will. No one will ever be there when you need them. If this thing is to be done, it must be done by you, by whatever means. And for the space of two minutes, he had believed it.

Miranda, he thought, would have understood. She had felt this sensation herself - he had seen it in her eyes, there, in Peter Ashe’s dining room the night of her death. She would have understood the all-consuming rage that had filled him at the thought of her being abducted - at the thought of her being used as some kind of a pawn. She would also, he knew, have been bloody furious to find him giving in to it.

“James - where are you?” John asked, and for a moment, James had no answer for him. He was not in Nassau, that much was for certain, but that was not entirely what his former quartermaster had meant. It never was - James knew better than to think that. He had asked the question once before - during a time when James had needed to find the answer for himself as much as he did now. 

He closed his eyes. He could go ahead. He could tear down half of London, find Miranda and get them all out, but -

He had been wrong before. Abruptly, he recalled his conversation with Hennessey - the look in the older man’s eyes and his own horror when he’d realized what he might have done - what might have occurred in that other life, had Captain Flint encountered the man James considered a father. He had been so thoroughly mistaken - as wrong then as he would be now to let the monster off its chain to handle with blood what James would not with words. 

_“He - it wasn’t what I imagined it to be at all. What if I had - Christ, what if I had done it?”_

His own words came back to him, and he swallowed hard. John was right. He took a deep breath, realization and understanding coming to him all at once. He was not in Nassau. He was not in the Caribbean, and this was not 1715, nor 1705 as James remembered it in his worst nightmares. He was not a pirate. He was not a murderer, or a one-man army. He was - 

He was being an idiot. 

The realization took some of the tension thrumming through him with it - relaxed his aching shoulders where they had bunched together, sent a wave of cold chills running down his spine. He unclenched one fist, flexing the hand and allowing it to hang at his side while he ran the other over his face. The solution to his troubles, he realized with a sense of incredulous irritation at himself, had been staring him in the face - for days, really, if he had just taken the trouble to pack away whatever juvenile stupidity had led to his refusal to take matters in hand, and with a jolt he recalled the night of Alfred’s murder and the rest of his conversation with Thomas. His lover had, as usual, hit the nail on the head.

“ _Still,_ ” James started, clearing his throat, “ _We will let all this be a thing of the past, though it hurts us, and beat down by constraint the anger that rises inside us. Now I am making an end of my anger. It does not become me, unrelentingly to rage on._ ” 

He heard Thomas draw in a deep, relieved breath beside him and release it shakily, his hands reaching out to grab hold of James and draw him into an embrace. 

“Oh thank God,” he muttered against James’ shoulder, his voice muffled. “James -” He pulled back, and James met his eyes, then looked to John, apology in his gaze along with a plea for forgiveness. 

“I’m sorry,” he offered softly. “I -” 

“It’s alright,” Thomas answered. “James - it’s alright.” James nodded, grateful for the understanding being offered. 

“There _is_ a way,” he said, quietly, regretfully. “It shouldn’t involve any bloodshed. I should have seen it before, but I -”

“You were busy,” John filled in. “So - what’s the plan?” The shorter man had let go of his arms, now, and backed away, taking himself to sit on the windowsill, his feet hanging just shy of the floor, hand reaching out to snag an apple off of a nearby table, and James spared a moment to be struck by the ridiculousness of the image. Two minutes before, the man had been directly in front of him, braver than he had any right to be, facing down Flint at the height of his rage, and now -

“The plan,” he said, passing a hand over his hair, “is simple. We open that letter. We read it. We find out which Churchill we’re dealing with, and then I go and talk with Admiral Hennessey. He knows George Churchill at the very least. If it’s him, Hennessey will be more than happy to help us - he hates the man, and if it’s his brother the Duke, then Hennessey might still be able to help us turn the tables on him through his brother.” 

Thomas was looking at him with an expression he could only call pride, and John was watching the pair of them, eating the apple in his hand, a look of quiet satisfaction on his face. 

“There,” he said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

James shot him a look and received a brilliant, devil-may-care grin in return. 

“I’m going to go and clean up,” he muttered. “Open that letter while I’m gone, will you?” He turned and left the room, leaving the two to their own devices.  
****************************************************  
“That was bravely done.” 

They were sitting in the room at opposite ends, with John still sitting in the windowsill and Thomas on the bed, looking more than a little weary. At the sound of Thomas’ voice, John turned, and found the other man looking at him frankly. 

“Are we discussing my suicidal decision to stand between James and the door?” 

Thomas gave him a look. 

“You know we’re not,” he answered, and John shot him a glance.

“You’re still entirely too smart,” he said, and Thomas shrugged. 

“Just too curious, I suspect,” he answered, and John laughed. “That’s what he was like, all these years?” John shook his head.

“Oh no,” he answered quietly. At Thomas’ inquisitive glance, he gave him a crooked smile. 

“Much worse,” he said, and Thomas closed his eyes. 

“Dear God,” he murmured. “What horrors have I wrought upon the ones I love?” He looked out the window, and John shook his head.

“You weren’t responsible,” he said, and Thomas turned back to look at him, a startled look on his face. 

“That was not your opinion this morning,” he pointed out. 

“Yes - I’m sorry about that,” he answered, and Thomas raised an eyebrow. 

“You’re sorry?” he asked, and John nodded. “May I ask what’s changed?” 

“You can ask,” John answered, and Thomas rolled his eyes heavenward as if to ask for strength. “You had that coming,” John pointed out, and Thomas snorted.

“Yes,” he acknowledged, “I suppose I did. What changed your mind?” 

John sat, silent for a moment, looking out the window toward the yard, where James had just reached the water pump.

“When we spoke this morning - I was angry, not with you but because the man I had known was gone, lost to me, or so I thought. It’s only now that I am beginning to realize -” He stopped, looking at the door that James had disappeared through. 

“What?” Thomas asked, and John shook his head, and when he spoke again his voice was quiet, his tone contemplative. 

“How pleased I am _not_ to find him here.”  
********************************************************  
He’d finally managed to get clean. It had taken some serious scrubbing, and he feared his white shirt was beyond saving, but at last his hair, his face, and his hands were free of debris from the night before. James stood, his hands resting on either side of the basin, looking downward at the water, his face still dripping. He did not move, simply allowing himself a moment to regroup.

He could not remember the last time he had felt like this. 

Miranda was still in dire need of assistance. John Silver had made his way back into James’ life, and the conversation with Hennessey stood before him, promising to be both awkward and difficult, but for the first time in a very long while, James felt like his feet were on solid ground. The feeling was an intoxicating one. For the first time in eleven years, he was not grasping for a plan. He was not hanging everything on a single thread, hoping to God it would not snap. He was not reeling through life cutting down anyone and anything that got in his way. Instead, the rage demon had risen - and been denied. It felt good, and in honor of his newfound sense of wellbeing, he allowed himself one further indulgence. He closed his eyes and, facing the clear water in the basin in front of him, he opened them and looked into his own eyes.

It had been a very long time, he thought, since he had been able to do this. He studied his own features for a moment and then met his own gaze. For the first time since his exile, he did not feel the need to turn away from it. He was tired, yes, and his face needed a shave, badly, but the man looking back at him - 

“Well,” James McGraw murmured. One corner of his mouth turned up and, almost experimentally, he gave himself a smile. “There you are. Nice to have you back.” 

He headed back to Thomas and John with the smile still on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts: The title of the chapter comes from a section of the Odyssey that seemed relevant. "At this time Charybdis sucked down the sea's salt water, but I reached high in the air above me, to where the tall fig tree grew, and caught hold of it and clung like a bat."


	13. To Catch A Fox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I.... LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE! This chapter has been the worst of all of them in terms of how much it's taken out of me, and in terms of just how bloody tired I am of it, but it's here, it's done, at last, and I think it's exactly what I needed it to be. I'm sincerely hoping that next chapter will be much easier to write. Comments and kudos keep me going, friends, so please leave both if you're enjoying this! Also, Quill - you've inspired part of this one. Hope you like it!
> 
> In case anyone is wondering, Kitty Ashe looks and sounds like Hayley Atwell in my head.

She looked like a different person.

Miranda regarded the woman in the mirror before her critically. She looked tired, she thought. Small wonder, of course - she had had no rest the previous night and the small amount she had gotten upon arriving at Kitty Ashe’s home had been negligible at best. It was a familiar look for her, one she had worn for ten years while she attempted to run a small farm on her own. The look in her eyes, though - that was foreign. Had she always looked so - hardened? Had her gaze always looked like this, or was it only now - now with her husband in danger, her lover potentially in greater danger still, and all of their fates resting on her shoulders? She looked into her own eyes for a moment longer. It was strangely familiar, the look on her face. If she looked longer, she could spot the lines forming around her mouth - familiar lines, born of frowning too often and laughing too little. Lines that she had last seen on one of the men she loved.

James. The name put steel into her spine and hardened her resolve. It was long past the time for regrets. She would not fail him. She straightened, looking into her own gaze, unhappiness turning to resolve. Enough doubts. If James could do it, then so could she.

“Lady Hamilton? Are you well?” The chambermaid that called out to her sounded anxious, and Miranda turned. 

“I’m fine,” she reassured. “Do you know where Lady Ashe might be found?” 

“I believe she’s downstairs in the parlor with the Duchess, Ma’am.” The answer sounded timid, and Miranda frowned.

“I’m hardly likely to bite you, Millie,” she said, and the girl’s eyes widened. 

“Ma’am -?” she started, and Miranda sighed. 

“Yes, I know your name,” she said. “You are a person, Millie, not an object, and people have names. It is only right that I should use yours.” 

“Ma’am,” Millie stammered, and Miranda shook her head. 

“Please let Lady Ashe and her Grace know that I will be joining them,” she requested, and the girl dipped a curtsy and scurried down the hall, leaving Miranda to her contemplations.

_“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to.” The Duchess’ voice was a sharp thing, Miranda thought, but she did not care - not now, not after the night she had had._

_“Do you not?” she asked. “Tell me, your Grace - exactly how much do you stand to profit from your brother-in-law’s scheme? I will assume that he is doing this for the money, somehow, as I presume that he was involved somehow in dealings with my father-in-law and the man thought of nothing else.”_

_“Miranda!” Kitty sounded shocked, and Miranda’s gaze flicked over to her friend._

_“Kitty - tell me you had nothing to do with this, and I will believe you,” Miranda said calmly. She could see the moment that Katharine Ashe’s eyes narrowed. She saw her friend rake her gaze over Miranda’s somewhat battered form - and then watched her turn her gaze on the Duchess._

_“Your Grace,” she addressed the woman directly, “is there any truth to this?”_

_“None whatsoever,” the Duchess answered. She turned back to Miranda. “Lady Hamilton - you are tired. You appear to have been handled roughly, and I will assume your accusations are -”_

_“Well-founded, given what I managed to ascertain from the men who did this,” Miranda finished. “I will thank you not to pretend that I have become unhinged, your Grace.”_

_“No - indeed not,” the older woman answered. She looked Miranda over again. “Dear God,” she murmured, and Miranda raised her chin._

_“This was done,” she said, gesturing to the abrasions around her wrists, “by your brother-in-law’s men, your Grace. Will you tell me that they were not your men too? That you have nothing to do with this?”_

_The Duchess closed her eyes._

_“I will have George’s head for this,” she murmured. When she opened her eyes, she was looking directly at Miranda. “Come in, Lady Hamilton. I’m certain that Kitty can find something for you to wear, and we will have a doctor attend to your injuries. You can tell us the entire tale when you have had a chance to rest and recover.”_

One hour and a great deal of fussing and arguing later, Miranda stood, the abrasions on her wrists neatly salved and bandaged, and her hair drawn into a tight bun of the sort she had worn on New Providence. She had, against the maid’s objections, also found a dress to wear that was serviceable rather than fashionable, and had removed all but her wedding ring by way of jewelry. She was, she thought, altogether more comfortable and infinitely less noticeable - which was her intention.

She did not, of course, trust the Duchess. Sarah Churchill could protest her innocence all she liked and still Miranda would not have believed her. 

She could believe that the woman had not known about her brother-in-law’s ambitions. She could believe that George had acted without his brother’s permission or knowledge - that much was entirely within the realm of possibility and even probability. The man was a notorious thorn in the Duke’s side. What Miranda could not believe was Sarah’s apparent willingness to throw the younger Churchill under the carriage wheels without so much as a second thought. No. It was simply not the way that things were done among the upper echelons. They might squabble internally, but to throw one of them to the wolves was to risk the pack turning on the rest of the family having gotten a taste for the blood. Sarah knew this all too well - she of all people, who spent her days in a delicate balancing act between her husband and her Queen. Miranda did not believe her for two seconds - but she also could not dismiss her. She needed assistance - that much was blindingly obvious, and the Duchess’ aid could still prove useful, hedged with thorns though it might prove. She’d always been a careful gardener, after all. 

She stood, giving her hair one final pat before she headed out of the room. She had some pruning to do.  
************************************************  
_James’ Lodging House, the Same Morning:_

He was running out of places to look. 

“James McGraw,” Hennessey muttered under his breath, “when I find you, I am going to have you skinned. No. Nevermind that - I’ll do the skinning m’self.” 

The room was neat and clean. The bed was made. The clothing was folded and James’ effects hung on hooks or sat tucked away in his sea chest, and the man himself -

“I’ve told you, Sir, Captain McGraw hasn’t been here since the day before yesterday!” 

The landlady’s voice carried up the stairwell, and Hennessey pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said. “I may be old but I am not deaf. I heard you the first time. Would you happen to have any notion where he might be?” 

“No, sir. And now, once again, I will ask you to leave the Captain’s rooms. God alone knows what he would say about -” 

He allowed the landlady to prattle on as he sunk down into one of the chairs in James’ room, his eyes taking in the room. If not here, and not at the Hamiltons’ residence, then where the hell had the man gotten to? The thought sent a jolt of fear running through him. James had left his residence. He was not to be found at his lovers’ home. What if -?

The fear was a relatively new feeling for Hennessey. He considered himself a plain man - not given to either small talk or gossip, and certainly not in any way fond of games, whether they were political or personal. He detested being left in the dark more still, and the past two weeks had been an exercise in patience in the face of a complete and utter lack of communication, brought on by he knew not what. It was infuriating. It was extremely confusing. It was -

It was horrifying. 

_He had hurt James._ The knowledge gnawed at him, tearing him to shreds with each new day he heard nothing from his son. He had gone over their conversation over and over again in his head, and the conclusion that he had come to was not a pleasant one. He had hurt James, by word or deed, and he had evidently done it so many times that the boy had come to the inevitable conclusion that Hennessey hated him. The raw pain and confusion and anger in James’ voice had tied his stomach in knots and featured in more than one nightmare since that night. And for him to be missing now -

He shook off the thought. He was not going to start recriminating himself all over again - not here, not right now. James was in London somewhere, and whatever Hennessey had done to make his son doubt him, now was the time to start making amends. If he could find James, he would make this right, and he _would_ find him. Perhaps he was aboard his ship.

“Mrs. Pritchard,” he called. “If you would be so kind, please tell my driver our destination has changed. I’ll be heading to the docks.” 

“Sir! Sir!” 

The sound of a boy’s voice stopped him in his tracks and he turned.

“Sir!” the boy repeated, and Hennessey held up a hand. 

“Easy,” he ordered. “Get your breath back.” He waited until the lad had stopped panting, and then nodded. “Now. The message, slowly if you please.” 

“You’re to meet Captain McGraw, sir. He sent me - “

He brandished a piece of paper, and Hennessey snatched it from his hand and read it over. 

“Wapping Street?” he murmured. “What the devil-? Nevermind, I’ll find out myself. Was there any further message?” 

“Yes sir. Said to come quickly sir and not bandy it about too much.”

Hennessey closed his eyes. 

“If that noble brat of his has gotten him into trouble, I will -” He opened his eyes and shook his head. “You’ve done well, lad.” He dug into one pocket and produced a few coins, handing them over to the boy, whose eyes widened. “Go on. Back to wherever you came from,” he said, and the boy nodded.

“Yes sir!” 

Hennessey turned, heading for his carriage and Wapping Street. 

“James, what in God’s name -?” he muttered.  
**********************************************************  
“So - you have an admiral for a father?”

James turned. 

“For all intents and purposes - yes,” he repeated, and quirked one eyebrow at the look on John’s face. “What?” he asked. “You didn’t think I’d sprung fully formed from the sea, able to sail a ship did you?” 

The shorter man gave him a smirk.

“I’ll confess, the thought had crossed my mind.” 

James raised one eyebrow.

“Tell me - when this thought crossed your mind - just how delirious were you?” 

He laughed, but in all seriousness, the thought had in fact occurred to him. The thought of James having a parent - any parent, even an adoptive one - was foreign - unimaginable, somehow. If he had been asked when he had first come aboard Flint’s ship where he thought the man had sprung from, he might have guessed the depths of the ocean itself. Flint had appeared to him to be a god of sorts - a vengeful, clever, and entirely merciless one, Poseidon himself perhaps, risen from beneath the waves. He had been aboard the Walrus for several months before he had started to see glimpses of the man beneath the sea-god, and that man had been compelling all on his own, for all that John had been forced to add deeply wounded to the list of Flint’s traits as a result. In the wake of James’ confessions regarding his past, he had been forced to reevaluate, but the war had taken precedence, as had other developments in his life around the same time. He had speculated briefly about the man that James had mentioned perhaps twice in all the time that John had known him - the man, he said, that had taken him in and taught him most of what he knew about sailing and then cast him out. John had started to speculate once or twice about the man and inevitably been distracted by the incongruous image of a young James, entirely devoid of the snarling bitterness that plagued his friend as an adult. He had formed a picture of Hennessey in his head that was, he suspected, inaccurate at best. 

“So what is he like?” he asked, and James gave him an amused expression.

“You’ll meet him soon enough,” he answered, and John rolled his eyes.

“And some help that will be,” he answered. “I’d like to know something about the man before you bring him here. What should I expect?”

They had elected to bring Hennessey to them rather than the other way around. After speaking with Thomas and John, James had reluctantly agreed, giving way when John pointed out the likelihood of the walls having rather large ears in Hennessey’s office. Thomas had gone out and fetched a doctor for James’ knee and bruised head, and then they had settled in, waiting, with James firmly encouraged to sit down and stay off the injured leg, grumbling all the while.

“You know James?” Thomas asked, answering John’s question, and John raised an eyebrow. “Imagine him, but older and less impulsive.” 

“Thomas - Ah! Be _careful_ , damn it!” James glared down at the doctor who had just finished wrapping his injured knee. The man looked up, unimpressed, and John once again repressed a grin. Oh, how nice it was to see that look directed at someone other than him for a change! 

“You’re the one that took it into your head to sprain your knee,” the doctor scolded, and James’ scowl deepened.

“I did not _take it into my head to_ -” he started, and winced again as the doctor wrapped the bandage just a touch too tight, immediately murmuring half-hearted apologies. Of course, given the source, it was hardly surprising.

“There,” John Howell said, exasperation leaking into his voice. “God knows you’ll only manage to do it again the moment I turn my back but for the moment it’s stable. I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to stay off of it for a day or two to give it time to heal?”

“Probably,” John piped up from the corner, and Howell rolled his eyes. 

“Of course,” he muttered. “You’ll receive my bill by post, and so help me, if I find press gangs anywhere near my residence -”

“You won’t,” James answered, still scowling. “Christ.”

“Good,” Howell said firmly. “Good day, gentlemen. Captain.” He donned his hat. “I swear - if it’s not one leg injury it’s another,” he muttered on his way out the door, and John turned, staring after him, startled. Had he just said -? Thomas opened it for him, and went through after, following him down the stairs.

John turned to James, and they shared a look between them.

“Do you think -?” James started to ask, and John raised an eyebrow. 

“I truly don’t know,” he answered. 

“Why else would he have mentioned leg injuries? And press gangs?” James asked, and John shrugged helplessly. They looked at each other for another moment, and then James sniggered. 

“The poor bastard,” John said, his voice choking with suppressed laughter, and James snorted. 

“I wondered why he was being so bloody rough,” he said wryly. “Do you think he remembers everything?” 

“I really hope not,” John answered, and stopped. James was looking at him, and he shot him a grin, hoping to cover the moment. “You never did answer me about the Admiral,” he said, and James shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I didn’t. And you never answered my question from this morning.”

“What? You still don’t know where we are?” Silver asked lightly, and James gave him a look.

“You know that’s not the one,” he said, and Silver went still.

He had known this was coming. Still - here it was and he was no more ready for it now than he had been that morning when he’d been blindsided by the revelation that James no longer remembered the past twenty years, and how in the fuck was he supposed to -?

He blew out a breath. There was no avoiding it, and no point in doing so. He’d survived a leg amputation. Surely he could survive this.

“You really want to know?” he asked, and James nodded. 

“You’re not going to like it,” he warned, and James rolled his eyes.

“Stop prevaricating and get on with it,” he answered, and John grimaced.

“Alright,” he answered moving to sit on the arm of a nearby chair as James leaned forward, his eyes still fixed on his former quartermaster.

“Well?” 

“I’ll tell you what,” John answered, and James groaned. “I’ll give you an answer for an answer.” 

“You want to play f-bloody games even now?” he asked, and Silver couldn’t help the twitch of his mouth at one corner at the bitten off profanity.

“That’s still odd,” he said.

“What is?” 

“You, behaving yourself.” 

James snorted. 

“So were the looks the first time I slipped up in public,” he answered, and John gave a huff of laughter.

“I’m sure. So - what do you say? A question for a question?” 

“Are you going to answer or are you going to spin some bullshit story?” James demanded, but there was no real rancor behind it, and John marveled once again at the difference. 

“I swear, on whatever you please, no lies.”

“Quickly,” James muttered, “notify the papers. Judgment Day has come!” 

John grinned, and sat back.

“You ask first,” he offered, and James gave him a long look.

“How long has it been for you?” he asked, and John took a deep breath. Of course. Of course he would go for the meaningful, important question right off. 

He’d forgotten what this was like - talking with James, but the more he did it, the more he recalled. There was a trick to this - a trick to getting James to let go of the bone once he had it in his teeth, and Christ, today John was grateful that he had learned the trick. He would tell James what he had done, someday, perhaps - just not now, not today. He knew what it made him. He also knew that he did not care - not when James was looking at him like that again, like all was right in the world. Not now.

“How long since what?” John asked. “How long since I’ve eaten? Too long. That apple was an hour ago. Speaking of which - you know, I don’t know if I’ve actually seen you eat anything at all today. Have you?” He could not resist the joke. It crossed his lips almost before he could think about it - some things, after all, just never changed.

James gifted him an unimpressed expression.

“How long?” he repeated, and John sighed. He was rusty at this particular trick, or James had gotten more persistent without the grief that had fueled his anger, or a bit of both. Or maybe he was just tired.

“Since I’ve seen you, or since the bits of our shared history that you remember?” he asked, and James frowned.

“What’s the difference?” he asked, and John gave a mirthless laugh.

“About fifteen years, give or take,” he answered. “I saw you about five years back, by my own reckoning. It was - I don't know what the hell I expected, to be honest. Since the night before the battle - ” He sighed and shook his head. "It's been twenty years. Christ, I can't believe I'm saying that."

James winced, and John shrugged.

“You asked,” he said, and James ran a hand through his hair. He looked downward, visibly trying to decide whether he dared get up and pace, and John rolled his eyes.

“Oh, don’t get like that,” he said, and James looked at him, startled. “I know what you look like when you’re about to do something stupid. That much hasn’t changed.” 

James grimaced. 

“I’m sorry -” he started, and John shook his head.

“You know, if you keep that up I might get used to it,” he said. “The apologizing, that is. It’s still strange as fuck, I hope you know that.” 

James’ expression turned what John could only describe as stricken, and John sat back, dismissing the conversation. 

“My turn,” he said. “You’re an Admiral’s brat. Tell me how that happened.” 

“Correction,” James answered. “I’m a carpenter’s brat that got lucky enough to have an Admiral take me in when my father died because I was onboard his ship and constantly in his way. He couldn’t ignore me, so he took me on as a servant, in part as a sort of penance for getting my father killed. John -” 

“Oh now you remember my name,” John said. “Let it go, James, for fuck’s sake. The Admiral. You mentioned him, when you told me what started you on the path to becoming Captain Flint, but you never mentioned who he was to you. Why hide it?” 

James shook his head. He was still looking at John strangely, as if he wanted to say something more, but he let it go, silently acquiescing to John’s request, and John felt relief wash over him. Not as rusty as he’d feared, then.

“Two questions,” James objected, and Silver rolled his eyes. 

“Fine,” he said. “Your turn.” 

“Where were you when you woke up?” 

“You know where I -” Silver started, and then stopped. “Wait. You _don’t_ know, do you? I haven’t told you that yet.” 

James shook his head. 

“I went to sleep the night before our first battle alongside the Maroons,” he answered. “Somehow, you little shit, you’ve managed to get my entire story out of me without returning the courtesy.” He grinned - and John winced.

_You know my story._ The words flashed through his head, and he could not help the sharp spike of guilt that followed them. He hadn't told him. He had never told him - not any of it, and hadn't he wished a hundred times that he had just fucking done it? Just said it out loud to someone? 

Fuck he had been a coward - the worst sort, and what the fuck was the point if he didn't start making changes now?

“Fuck," he muttered. "I was asleep in bed, with a rather attractive woman whose name I could not for the life of me remember,” he answered finally. “She was not pleased, believe me, and worse, she seemed to think I had made certain promises. She stormed out, and I upped stakes the same day on the off chance that there were others I had forgotten about.” The words - came spilling out of him, and he closed his eyes. There. That was part of it, at least. He could lead into this - he could say it, because fuck, what was his life up to the point he had met Flint compared with what had come after?

James snorted.

“That doesn’t answer the question of where you were,” he said, and Silver made a face.

“You’re irritatingly perceptive when you’re not halfway down a bottle or trying to murder me with your eyes, you realize that?” He dragged a hand over his face. “I was in the East End, not far from the orphanage I grew up in. There, are you happy now?”

“So the story about the orphanage was true?” James asked, and John nodded.

“Yes.”

“And Solomon Little?” 

John shook his head.

"Is a character entirely of my own imagining, meant to drive people up a wall trying to figure out who he is," he admitted. "And no, my real name isn't Solomon, before you ask. John is true enough, but I'll be damned if you'll ever hear my fucking father's name out of my lips. He was a bastard, and the day he died was one of the best of my life even though it landed me in the orphanage."

James was looking at him as if he had grown a second head.

"And here I thought you'd never tell me," he said. "Any reason you were trying to cover that up?"

“Who doesn’t like a bit of mystery?” John asked, and James snorted.

“Admiral Hennessey,” he answered, and John raised an eyebrow. 

“Really?” he asked, and James nodded. 

“I know you’ve always found me distressingly blunt,” he says. “I’ll own I don’t bother with subtlety often, but the Admiral -” He shook his head. “When you meet him, do us all a favor and don’t try the dancing act. He’ll take to it even more poorly than I did when we first met.” 

“Yes, and when, pray tell, was that?” 

A voice sounded from the door, and John watched, bemused, as James jumped to his feet, wincing as he did so. He turned to find a man who could only be the Admiral standing in the doorway, his blue eyes focusing on James. 

“Perhaps,” he said, “one of you would like to tell me what the devil is going on?"  
**************************************************************  
_Windsor:_

She had left the parlor when Miranda and the Duchess had begun their discussion.

It was not that she was a coward, Kitty Ashe thought. Indeed, she liked to think that she had as much pluck as any other woman - and twice the brains of most men, for she had learnt long ago that she did best for herself and her only daughter when she kept out of the affairs of her husband his associates. She was not a silly woman, but she did her best to pretend that she was, and most of the time, she was successful. She was not ashamed of doing so, either. She was not Miranda, with her intrigues and her handsome young lovers and her ambition. She wished her friend all the luck in the world and sometimes wished that she herself possessed some of the same courage and willful disregard for opinions, but Kitty Ashe was made of different stuff.

Or so she had thought, until Miranda had appeared on her doorstep that morning, her clothing and hair in a deplorable state, looking as though she had not slept the night before, telling Kitty she had been set upon by agents of the Churchills. She had been shocked - until she had caught sight of Sarah Churchill’s expression, and felt a cold chill travel down her spine. It was true, she realized - true enough for Sarah to look at Miranda with a look that spoke of calculations and collateral damage and the sort of dealings that Kitty had so carefully sequestered herself away from in the past. She wanted nothing to do with this - with any of this, and yet -

“-just as horrified by this as you are, Lady Hamilton, I assure you,” the Duchess was saying. “If you will accompany me to George’s residence, I assure you -”

“You don’t seriously believe that I will agree to that,” Miranda scoffed. “Perhaps I was not clear, your Grace. I spent part of this morning confined to a carriage, headed for what I can only presume is your brother-in-law’s residence, after being accosted the night before and threatened with the death of one of our oldest servants if I did not comply. I hardly think -” 

“George would never attempt anything so foolhardy while I accompany you,” Sarah answered calmly. “My presence would be protection enough against -” 

Kitty did not listen any further. 

“I’ll have George’s head for this,” Sarah had murmured, and Kitty had understood. Worse - she knew what Sarah would do, if given the chance. 

She hoped and prayed that Miranda had also understood. She knew her friend for a shrewd woman, but if it came to a threat to her husband -

There were those, she thought grimly, who thought her and Miranda peas in the same pod - who looked at her, and looked at her friend, and saw only two silly women, one of whom had more of a taste for gossip than the other. There were those who mistook Miranda’s dalliances for a lack of care for Thomas. They could not have been further from the truth, and Kitty feared what Miranda would prove willing to do to safeguard him. Then, too, she had seen the way both Miranda and Thomas looked at the Naval officer they had become fast friends with. She knew that look - fondness, mixed with a sort of pride and comfortable understanding. She had felt that way about Peter once, and she understood what it meant when she heard his name through the door where she stood.

“And Captain McGraw?” her friend asked. “If he is dead, or injured - what will you do about that? Do you intend to hold your brother-in-law to account for that, your Grace, or only for his crimes against me and my husband?” 

Yes, Kitty reflected - she knew Miranda, and she knew what her friend would do for either of her men, and that was a truly excellent reason for Kitty herself to reluctantly dip her foot in the waters of intrigue once again. Miranda would be making no foolish decisions on her watch. She straightened, turning to her daughter.

“You remember what I asked?” 

Abigail nodded quickly.

“Yes, Mama.” 

“Good girl. This once only, and then never again, do you understand?” Abigail nodded again, and Kitty nodded, opening the door to the study. Both women were on their feet. Good. She was just in time.

“Aunt Miranda!” The little girl leapt forward, and Miranda turned, startled.

“Abigail!” She opened her arms almost automatically, and the girl flung herself forward to be duly hugged and kissed, and then wriggled free, turning to the Duchess.

“Your Grace,” she greeted, dipping a quick curtsy, and Kitty saw the Duchess’ startled expression turn to polite amusement. 

“Lady Abigail,” she greeted, and Kitty’s daughter giggled at the formal address. 

“I’m not a lady,” she answered, and the Duchess gave her a mock startled expression.

“Why - is there another little girl in the house that looks so much like your mother? Am I speaking to Miss Abigail Ashe?” 

Abigail giggled again.

“Yes, your Grace.” 

“Well, then - Lady Abigail it is.” The Duchess sat down again, inviting Abigail to come and join her on the chaise with a pat. “Now, Lady Abigail -”

She cut off abruptly, giving a strangled gasp. Abigail stood, a horrified expression on her face, staring at the wine that had spilled onto the Duchess’ gown, knocked over as Abigail had come closer, her hand having brushed against the glass.

“Your Grace -!” she started, and the older woman stood, reaching for a napkin. 

“Oh - this is silk, it will never come out -” 

Kitty brushed through the door, taking hold of Abigail.

“Go,” she instructed her daughter, and Abigail nodded, her task complete. She ran from the room, and Kitty moved immediately to the Duchess. “Your Grace,” she said. “A thousand apologies. Please, come with me. My maid, Mary, does wonders with stains but she’ll need to wash this immediately. Please -” 

She ushered the still sputtering Duchess into the hands of the chambermaid and waited. The sound of the woman’s fussing died down after a moment or so as she moved further away from the room, and Kitty turned to Miranda, who sat, quite calm, watching her friend with one eyebrow raised.

“You disapprove,” she said, and Kitty shook her head, closing the door behind herself.

“Far from it,” she answered, and Miranda frowned. 

“Then why -?” 

“-did I send Abigail in with instructions to make a mess?” Kitty asked archly, and Miranda inclined her head. 

“It was well done,” she acknowledged, and Kitty gave her a smile.

“I rather thought so,” she answered, and sat down next to her friend. “Miranda,” she started, and Miranda held up a hand. 

“No, Kitty,” she said. “Please - don’t waste your breath. I am going to find James and extricate Thomas from this mess, one way or another.”

“I wouldn’t dream of stopping you,” Kitty answered. “But I would prefer it if you didn’t call down the wrath of God on yourself in the process. Miranda - you know who she is. You know -”

Miranda’s eyes went hard, and Kitty stopped. 

“I know,” Miranda said quietly, “that she is part of a plan that would have seen me taken from my home, my husband treated as a pawn on a chessboard, and any progress we have made toward real change in the Bahamas reversed in a heartbeat. And I know that until she is stripped of her ability to maneuver in court circles, none of us will ever be safe.” 

“None?” 

Kitty’s question caught Miranda off-guard, and she stopped, looking at her friend. 

“You know about James,” she said. It was not a question, but Kitty nodded. 

“Yes.” Miranda swallowed hard and closed her eyes, and Kitty could not resist. She reached out a hand and placed it on Miranda’s, squeezing it comfortingly.

“He’s a very handsome man,” she said softly. “And a well-spoken one.” Miranda opened her eyes, and gifted her a watery smile.

“He is,” she answered. “I suspect that he is -” She stopped, and Kitty felt a cold chill go through her. 

“Miranda? What’s happened?” she asked, and Miranda looked downward, biting one lip.

“He did not come home last night,” she said finally. “There was no warning. No note, and it is extremely unlike him. I’m afraid -” 

“You think she has him,” Kitty said, and Miranda nodded. 

“He’s that important to you, then?” she asked, and Miranda nodded.

“More important than you can possibly imagine,” she answered, and Kitty frowned. There was something odd in her friend’s voice - something older than her thirty one years, and that something was tired and, she realized abruptly, very, very angry. 

“You want him back. You want answers, and you want Thomas to be safe,” she summarized, and Miranda looked up, eyes blazing. 

“Yes.” 

Kitty nodded.

“Very well, then. Do you think the Duchess is sufficiently angry yet?” 

Miranda started, staring at her, and Kitty gave her a wry grin. 

“I may not play the Game very often, but I know what it looks like when someone else is doing it,” she said. “You had her halfway to slapping you, I think.” 

“I was rather hoping she would, actually,” Miranda confessed. “I would have more leverage that way, and I would be sure she would go.”

“I think the wine may have done it,” Kitty said. “We may as well spare your face. How are you planning on getting into the Admiral’s residence without being recognized?

Miranda stared for another moment, and then she smiled, hesitant, but sincere.

“I’ve chosen the right house, it appears,” she said, and Kitty squeezed her hand again.

“You’ve seen me through a great deal,” she answered. “It’s only fair that I return the favor. What can I do to help?”

Miranda looked at her wordlessly for a moment and then reached out, wrapping her arms around her friend and holding on for a moment, gratitude and relief in the warmth of her embrace. She pulled back after a moment, and met Kitty’s gaze, determined and focused once again. 

“I shall need to speak to your servants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sarah Churchill, Duchess of Marlborough:
> 
> [](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ASarah_Churchill_Duchess.jpg)


	14. Truce and Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've posted a Christmas fic, but in recognition of the fact that some of you probably celebrate other holidays - here is something for everyone, a new chapter! Happy holidays, everyone!

He was getting too old to be running about London, but Hennessey would never be too old, he thought privately, to be amused at the look on James’ face when Hennessey startled him. 

Both men in the room had jumped to their feet when the Admiral entered the room. It was instinct on James’ part, ingrained in him after over twenty years in the Navy, though Hennessey noticed that he was slow in doing so, not out of laziness but out of pain. He winced as he stood, Hennessey noticed - the left knee if he was any judge, and he waved a hand. 

“Sit down,” he snorted. “We’re not on the parade ground. James -” He stopped, looking James up and down. The Boy - 

Well, it wasn’t the worst bruising he had ever seen but that was hardly a recommendation. Hennessey felt a sinking sensation in his stomach as he looked at his injured protegé. He barely restrained the urge to rake a hand over his hair, amusement fading to worry and slight irritation, and sighed instead. 

“Please tell me,” he said in a patient, if somewhat exasperated tone, “that you have not been brawling again?” 

James shook his head. 

“No, sir. Not this time,” he answered, and Hennessey looked him up and down again skeptically. 

“A runaway carriage, then?” he demanded, and James shook his head. 

“No, sir.” 

“Well something has clearly gone wrong,” Hennessey said. “Christ, Boy - what the blazes happened?”

“Someone tried to kill him.” The sentence came from the shorter man in the room, and Hennessey turned his attention to him. 

“What?” 

“I was there, fortunately. You know, Admiral - I’d assumed you’d be taller, somehow.” 

Hennessey raised an eyebrow, staring at the walking head of curls that had just spoken.

“I’m sorry to disappoint, Mr. -?” 

“His name is John,” James said, interrupting the conversation. “And he needs to give us the room. If you would, please?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” John No-Name replied. “I thought I’d -”

“Come with me?” Another voice sounded from behind Hennessey, and he turned to find Thomas Hamilton standing in the doorway. “Yes, I couldn’t possibly agree more. Admiral - a pleasure seeing you. I believe you have business to resolve with James, correct?”

“I believe I have business with both of you, and you in particular, Lord Hamilton, if I find that you are in any way responsible for whatever mess Captain McGraw has managed to land in this time,” Hennessey answered, and heard James snort behind him. “Don’t laugh,” he warned. “I may not have the heart to charge you with disturbing the peace, but so help me -”

“We won’t go far,” Thomas promised. 

“We won’t go _anywhere_ ,” John argued. “I’ve just told you someone tried to kill him, and you want to threaten him? What the fuck -?” 

He was cut off mid-sentence as Lord Hamilton grabbed hold of his sleeve firmly, towing him out of the room. He’d clapped one hand over the shorter man’s mouth, Hennessey noticed, and the look in John’s eyes turned indignant. He struggled a bit as he was dragged away. He turned his head backward and forward in an attempt to escape Thomas’ hand, and Hennessey distinctly heard a disgusted noise pass the young Governor’s lips the moment the door thumped shut.

“Silver -!” 

“Try that again and I’ll do worse than lick,” Silver’s voice said, and the argument faded away. Hennessey looked at James with one eyebrow raised, and James gave him a stern expression by way of answer. There would be no argument on this score, clearly, and Hennessey gave it up with a shake of his head. 

“You had best hope you’re right about him,” he said, coming closer. 

“I am,” James answered, his voice caught somewhere between resolve and pleasant surprise. Hennessey nodded. Whatever cause he had given James to doubt him, he would not reinforce it by questioning him any further about his choice of partner. 

“You look as if you’ve not slept in days,” he said gruffly. “I’m pleased that you’ve decided to contact me, but I won’t deny that I would have preferred it if you had chosen to do so before someone elected to attempt using your face as a punching bag. I would further have preferred not receiving a message that simply said, ‘come quickly, Wapping Street, will explain everything upon arrival, J.’” 

James sighed. 

“I’m sorry if I startled you with my message,” he apologized, and Hennessey raised the other eyebrow. 

“Apologies are all well and good, but I believe I deserve an explanation to go with it,” he said dryly. “Son, may I remind you that when last we spoke -”

“I accused you of hating me. Yes. I’m -” James swallowed. “I’m sorry for that as well. Sir -”

He stopped again, looking at Hennessey, something both hopeful and slightly apprehensive in his expression. 

“Sir,” he started again, “I’m aware that we need to have a conversation - a long one, but not at this moment. Right now -”

Hennessey normally did not make a practice of cutting off his ward’s sentences. He had always believed that reasoned discourse was the result of both parties listening to one another, but on this occasion, he could not contain his impatience, or the irritation that welled up in him at his son’s attempts to dodge the question. This was not like James, and he was going to get to the root of the matter, here and now, before they could further damage their relationship through lack of communication. 

“This may be the only time we have where neither of us are surrounded by those who would seek to use who you are and what you are against us. Furthermore, you are scheduled to sail for the Bahamas any day. If we are going to have a conversation, then I would say that we had better have it now.” 

James did not quite wince, but the look on his face told Hennessey that his point had been made, and that James had indeed been trying to dodge the underlying issue that still lay between them. 

“James,” Hennessey said quietly, “talk to me, lad. Where is all this coming from?” 

James looked at him for another moment, and then swallowed hard. He had come to a decision of some kind, although what decision Hennessey was not certain.

“It’s going to sound mad,” he warned, and Hennessey rolled his eyes.

“Worse, I suppose, than you telling me that I’ve betrayed your trust in some way and then refusing all contact for weeks on end, only to finally send word when you’ve apparently been set upon?” 

James sighed. 

“Yes,” he answered, and Hennessey raised an eyebrow. 

“I somehow doubt it. Say on. Let’s have it out in the open and be done.” 

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

***************************************  
_Windsor:_

Mama was proving hard to find.

Abigail sighed, foiled once again. Her mother was not in her rooms. She was not in the study, or the parlor, or the drawing room. She was not in the library, or the kitchens. She was not even in Papa’s study, empty though it had been for the past weeks. 

Aunt Miranda was still in the house. Abigail knew that much. There would have been some kind of goodbye - at least a hug and a kiss before she left. If Mama was not in her own rooms - perhaps she was in Aunt Miranda’s room?

The little girl turned, her short legs taking her down the corridor with surprising speed. Aunt Miranda would know where Mama was, and if she didn’t, Abigail could always ask her for a story, or convince her to play. Aunt Miranda was -

“-you’re certain about this?” 

Mama’s voice came around the corner, and Abigail smiled. There they were! She hurried along, and stopped at the door, preparing to knock.

“Yes, Kitty.” Aunt Miranda’s voice issued from the room, but she did not sound happy. “I’m sure.”

“Well,” Mama said, “you certainly look the part. I only hope no one in the house recognizes your face.” 

“They won’t,” Miranda assured her. Abigail frowned. The part? What part? She rose to her tiptoes and looked through the keyhole.

Mama and Aunt Miranda were standing in front of a mirror. Mama looked perfectly normal, but Aunt Miranda -

Abigail wrinkled her nose. What was Aunt Miranda wearing? It looked all frumpy and boring, not at all like her normal finery. Was she playing dress-up? Aunt Miranda was too grown-up to be playing, surely?

Mama did not look happy. Abigail could see her face, complete with furrowed brows and pursed lips.

“Kitty,” Aunt Miranda tried. “I realize that you are not pleased about this. I will be careful, I promise you.” 

Mama waved her hand.

“It’s not that,” she said. “Let’s be truthful - this isn’t even the most insane plan you’ve ever had. Just -” She shook her head. “God, if I get my hands on Peter, I’ll have his head,” she murmured. “To get caught up in all of this and not _tell_ me -” Mama shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miranda.” 

Miranda turned and gave Abigail’s mother a smile.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she answered. “I’m sorry to have dragged you into all this, but -”

“It’s the least I could do,” Kitty said firmly. “We had better get you on your way. Her Grace will have repaired the damage to her wardrobe by now and be on her way to the Admiral’s residence. What are you planning on doing if they _are_ keeping Captain McGraw as a prisoner?” 

Miranda shook her head.

“I’ll decide that when I come to it,” she answered. “I want to hear their conversation, and then I would like a look at the Admiral’s papers if I can manage it.” 

“Millie is waiting - the carriage will drop you both off a street or so away. If I can help at all -”

“I’ll be certain to tell you. If you haven’t heard from me by tonight -”

“I’ll contact Thomas.” 

Abigail started. They were coming toward the door - toward her, and she was now very certain that this had been a conversation that was not meant for the ears of little girls. She backed away along the hall, taking to her heels and running the moment she was out of eyesight, but as she ran, she could not help remembering what she had just overheard and be worried. Mama and Aunt Miranda had been afraid, she thought. They had both had those funny looks on their faces like Mama often did when someone important was coming and Father hadn’t warned her, and she had never seen such a look on Aunt Miranda’s face before, all hard and determined and still scared underneath it. What if -?

Mama and Aunt Miranda, she told herself, were adults. They could handle anything - anything at all, just like Father, and besides, Aunt Miranda was smart. She could take care of herself.

Except that she hadn’t, had she? Abigail had seen her aunt’s face when she had arrived, and now it sounded as if other people were in trouble. And Mama had looked so worried, as if -

“If you haven’t heard from me by tonight,” Aunt Miranda had said, but what if she got in trouble and needed help immediately? What if -?

She turned directions abruptly. Mama would not approve, she thought, but Mama had a lot on her mind at the moment, and if Aunt Miranda needed her, then Abigail would go. She had helped once already. She could do it again. She took off running, heading for the carriage. There was not much room under the carriage seat, but Abigail was not that much bigger than a picnic basket, and she could surely still fit, for Aunt Miranda. 

**************************************  
_London, Lodging House on Wapping Street:_

He was shaking when he emerged from the room.

He closed the door behind himself, still breathing hard. He had to think. He had to have space to -

“Admiral?” Thomas Hamilton’s voice sounded, worried, from across the room, and Hennessey ignored it. Dear God - what he had just heard -

“Admiral?” The voice sounded closer, and Hennessey looked up, finding the younger man standing by him now, his expression full of concern. “Are you well?” 

Hennessey shook his head. No. No he was not alright. He might never be alright again after what he had just been told. God’s bones, he -

“He’s told him,” the voice of the shorter man - Silver - said grimly. “Get him a glass of water or something. Quickly!” 

Silver sat down next to him, and Hennessey realized quite suddenly that he was, in fact, sitting. When the hell had that happened?

“It’s a kick in the teeth, I know,” Silver said quietly. “Do you need a moment?” 

Hennessey laughed shakily. 

“I may need an entirely new lifetime, Mr. Silver.” He laughed again, hollow and mirthless, and Silver sighed.

“I was afraid you might take it like this,” he said.

Hennessey closed his eyes. This, as Silver had put it, was too much. It was too great and too terrible to contemplate - too much to comprehend. This was nothing short of impossibility. It was - it was -

He shuddered, his mind swimming. God and Saint Brighid, how could it be? 

He was not taking this well - he knew it. James deserved so much better from him, and yet -

 _“You’re not going to like hearing this,”_ his son had said to him, and oh, how right James had been! He had not liked hearing it - not one bit, not when James had first told him what had happened. He had liked it still less when James had started on his tale, and the telling had not gotten any better, not when he described the events of 1705 as he remembered them, nor when he described his return from Nassau -

Not when he described the night his life had changed forever. The night Hennessey had betrayed him in the worst way possible. 

It was not possible, was it? For Hennessey to have done something so utterly reprehensible - for James to have lived another life, entirely separate from this one? And yet, he could not deny the change in his son’s demeanor. In the space of a month, the boy he had known had changed. There was no denying it. The set of his shoulders, the difference in the way he reacted to Hennessey himself - the very fact that he had contacted Hennessey, where before he would blithely have bulled his way through this latest setback, offending nobles left and right and causing trouble rather than exhibiting behavior suited to his rank. No - it was not possible for such drastic change to have been effected solely through a change in scenery over such a short time. Such adjustments took years - or, the part of Hennessey’s mind that had already accepted the notion whispered, decades. It had happened - all of it, which meant -

He was going to be ill. He could not control the roiling of his stomach, or the way that his mind flitted from one thing to the next like a confused moth, lighting against lit torches with each attempt at landing. He had betrayed James - had told him he was a monster, and then forced him from the city he called home, from the life that Hennessey had built for him with his own two hands, and James had still -

_“It wasn’t you, sir,” he had said quietly. “I can see that now. I don’t know what you were thinking then - the other you, but you’re not him. I’m sorry I -”_

_“Sorry?” Hennessey had choked. “You are -?” He stared at his son. “James -”_

_“It wasn’t you,” James repeated, and Hennessey had felt some part of him shake apart. He understood. He knew, now, why James had looked at him with such reproach. This - this atrocity-_

“Here - take this.” Silver was handing him a glass, and Hennessey looked up, startled.

“Water,” the younger man said. “Drink it, it’ll help.” 

He was still shaking - too hard, as a matter of fact, to drink. He closed his eyes again, taking a deep breath. He could not afford to do this - not here, not now. He needed to -

 _“You said it was loathsome,” James’ voice said, his tone quiet and still injured, still horrified. “I stood there, and I heard you say it, and I -”_

Hennessey set the drink down, the glass clinking against the table as he did so. He could not do this. He could not -

“Dear God,” he murmured. “Dear God on High.” He was nearly weeping, he realized. There were tears welling in his eyes, and a lump in his throat, immovable, threatening to choke him even as he tried to swallow, tried to force his spinning mind to order. He took a deep breath, and then another, and when he opened his eyes, Silver was still sitting next to him, his young face concerned, and his eyes -

Hennessey shook his head. 

“Christ, that is uncanny,” he said. He had not seen it before, but John Silver’s eyes did not belong to a young man. They were older, wiser, and well they should have been, for Silver was, if James’ estimate was to be trusted, older than Hennessey himself. 

“I know,” Silver said with a half smile. “Trust me, it took me off guard the first time I caught sight of myself too.” 

“I’m sure it did,” Hennessey murmured. “My God!” 

Silver nodded.

“You believe us, then?” he asked, and Hennessey gave a minute shake of his head. 

“I don’t know what to believe, Mr. Silver. I’ve heard James’ tale and I -”

Silver’s eyes narrowed.

“You what?” he asked, and Hennessey shook his head again.

“I have little option but to trust him,” he answered at last. “Whatever he has seen - whatever you have seen - your mutual conviction in the matter renders the question academic. You believe in what you have seen, and so I must either declare you both delusional, which I find highly unlikely, or I must believe what you both tell me - that you have returned from the near future through means unknown to presumably alter the past - is true, in which case -”

Silver’s expression shifted subtly. He was watching Hennessey - watching, the Admiral realized, the same way a cat would watch a large dog, not in fear of its life, but with a view to taking it down a peg or two if necessary.

“I would hope,” he said quietly, “that the trust your son has just shown you will be repaid.” 

Hennessey nodded. Ordinarily, he might have bristled. He most definitely would have resented the threat implicit in the other man’s words, but not today. Not after what James had just told him - what that other version of himself had done. This -

This had to change. He took one more deep breath, closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he had regained his balance. James had been given ample reason to distrust him, as had Silver and Lord Hamilton, and now he at least knew where James’ fear of him stemmed from. He had not caused this, but he would need to prove himself, regardless. He stood, and felt every bit of his age as he did so. 

“Mr. Silver,” he said, “how long has it been since any of you slept or ate?” 

Silver gave him a considering look. 

“Yesterday,” he answered, and Hennessey nodded.

“I suspected as much,” he answered. “I’ve a carriage waiting outside which should fit the four of us, given that neither you nor Lord Hamilton have any more substance to you than the stair railing. I will speak to my driver, and then you will all accompany me to my home, since Lord Marlborough and his brother have eyes and ears everywhere else. You will all rest and be fed and I will see if I can contact Ned Russell, whom I suspect will be very interested in Lord Alfred’s business dealings.” 

“Russell?” Thomas asked from behind them, and Hennessey turned to find both Thomas and James standing in the doorway, Thomas looking both surprised and considering, and James simply looking at him apprehensively, clearly still not certain as to the reception of his news. 

“He’s hated the Churchills for years,” Hennessey answered. “George in particular edged him out of his position with the Navy, and he’s always suspected that Marlborough helped frame him for the 1696 attempt on the King’s life. If anyone will be willing to act, it is he.” 

“I - thank you, sir. I hardly dared ask -”

“You’re welcome,” the Admiral answered quietly. 

Thomas looked surprised, and Hennessey heaved a sigh. Here was yet another thing that would need to be mended, and quickly. He looked at the young lord again - at Thomas again, and allowed himself to see the boy properly for the first time. If what James told him was true - 

Hennessey could not quite suppress the shame that washed over him at looking at Thomas Hamilton. His reasons for suspecting the young lord’s motives had been valid ones, but standing here, in a lodging house that was as far removed from his normal milieu as it was possible to be, the boy looked less like a young noble and more like a man full-grown - one that, in another life, had walked into hell willingly to save James and his wife, one who now stood, tired and rumpled, quite obviously worried for Lady Miranda and James and fully involved in handling this latest mess, not ensconced in his study or holding a salon, feigning a lack of concern to avoid appearing weak, as his father would have done. One hand rested on James’ shoulder reassuringly, and the other seemed to be helping to keep him upright, firmly clenched on the doorframe, his entire form conveying the sort of weariness that Hennessey was well familiar with, having handled it himself too many times to count. This was not Alfred’s eldest son and heir, but a different breed altogether, and Hennessey - 

He had an apology to make. A rather large one. 

“Lord Hamilton - we have much to discuss,” Hennessey said. “For now, I will simply say that I am sorry. I’ve misjudged you.” 

James’ eyes widened. Thomas startled, and the older man gave them both a rueful smile.

“I still have two eyes in my head and I am not deaf yet, despite all the cannonfire,” he said. “When I sent James to you, it was in the hope that the responsibility and the honor of the position would steady him. Whatever else has gone between you, he seems to have gotten it into his head that he is not without the option of calling for reinforcements, and I gather I have you to thank for that, at least in part. So, for whatever it is worth - my thanks, and I hope that we may learn to work together if not perhaps like one another just yet. Truce?”

He extended a hand, and Thomas came forward, his face still a study in shock as he took the proferred olive branch. 

“Truce,” he agreed.

“Now. Let us go and see what may be done to aid your lady wife and put George Churchill back in his proper place on the dungheap.” 

He turned, heading for the stairwell, and could not quite help the smile that spread across his face at the look of shock and dawning relief on James’ face that he caught out of the corner of his eye as he walked away.


	15. Regroup and Reconaissance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, friends. I know it's been over a month, and I am sorry about that. I have my reasons, but none of those get you any closer to reading the chapter, so here it is, in all of its lovely, twisty turny actiony OT4-ish... Oh. Yeah. Right. As a reward for waiting, this chapter got a little Silverflint-y. Enjoy!

Manor houses, Miranda reflected, were much the same the country over.

The one she was in, for example, varied little in architecture or interior layout from the one she herself had grown up in. The rooms that she crept through at present were reminiscent of a hundred such that she had, as a child, spent long hours in, getting up to mischief with her sister and, later, with more than one young man. She had spent long days wandering the halls of her parent’s manse, blessed as she had been with long spans of time in which to do precisely nothing, and it was that very familiarity that was now going to prove her salvation, or at least so she hoped. She grasped the hand of the little girl who stood beside her, trembling, and squeezed it reassuringly. 

“Stay very close to me,” she murmured, and Abigail gave a frightened nod. 

“They can’t have gone far! Spread out and find them!” The cry came from far too close by, and Miranda squeezed her eyes shut, offering up a silent prayer. 

She turned to Abigail. 

“If I tell you to go, I want you to do it, and do so quietly,” she whispered, the barest murmur. “Don’t stop, and don’t ever look back. Do you understand me?” 

Abigail nodded silently, and Miranda swallowed hard, her lips flattening into an unhappy line. 

“We’re going to make for the abandoned wing. Not a sound, now, can you do that?” Abigail nodded again, and Miranda stood. This was no different than the games of hide and seek she’d used to play with her cousins when they were children, she told herself resolutely. She had excelled at it, and she did not think that she had forgotten how it was done. If she could hide from Cousin George, she could do it from this pack of fools. She motioned to Abigail, and together they set off down the darkened corridor.  
******************************************  
_An hour earlier:_

She could not help the sense of satisfaction that rose up in her at the sight of George Churchill’s parlor door. 

It had, she thought, been absurdly easy to get inside. The maid, Millie, had seen to it that she entered through the servants’ door, and she had gone entirely unnoticed since then, passing through the very halls that the Lord Admiral had proposed to have her drug through kicking and screaming without a hint of recognition from anyone. Had she not spent ten years in Nassau, she might have been unnerved - might have wondered exactly how many of her own servants were not servants at all but agents in the employ of either Alfred or Peter Ashe. As it was, she had done a tally after the fact - people who had, in retrospect, been ever present and just so subtly wrong, and come up with a rather depressing number. She had most likely been wrong in one or two cases, but the ones she was certain of more than made up for any error in her calculations. The ones who had quite suddenly found other employment in the wake of her father-in-law’s death, for example, had given her the idea for this gambit in the first place.

She was drawing nearer now, and she paused. She could not go inside - that much was certain. Admiral Churchill might not have recognized her, but his sister-in-law most certainly would. She did not know for certain what Sarah’s part in this was, and until she did, she did not dare risk being discovered. 

Fortunately, she did not think she would have to get close in order to hear the conversation in its entirety. The Churchills might have been many things - powerful nobles, schemers, friends to the Queen, great military minds - but what they were not was quiet.

“- in God’s name what you think you are doing?!” Sarah Churchill’s voice penetrated the wall, carrying through the corridor, clear and cold and absolutely, incandescently furious. 

“I might ask you the same,” an unfamiliar voice, waspish and somewhat nasal, answered. This, then, was George Churchill. Miranda pressed her lips together. She was not well acquainted with the Churchill family and had never met George, but she somehow doubted based on his voice that he much resembled his famed brother, either in looks or personality. “Tell me,” the Admiral continued. “Did you imagine that Alfred’s death would go unnoticed?” 

There was a brief silence. When Sarah spoke again, her voice was surprisingly calm - deceptively so, Miranda thought. 

“Do you know,” the Duchess said softly, “what they are saying about it on the street?” 

“I’ve had other concerns,” George answered, and she gave a short, sharp laugh.

“Other concerns,” she repeated scornfully. “They are saying, _brother_ , that it must have been Lord Thomas himself - or his wife. It is widely rumored that he and his father had a falling out - that Alfred’s death was the result of a power struggle, one that Lord Thomas won. And do you know what they will say when it is discovered that you, in your infinite wisdom, tried to abduct Lady Miranda?” 

“They will say _nothing_ , provided of course that you remove yourself and allow me to get on with the business of saving this family from your ruinous stupidity!”

“My stupidity?” Sarah demanded. “Mine? Do you have any notion of what I was trying to accomplish? We were one step away from an alliance with the Hamiltons - from allying with the Duke of Hamilton himself, and you -”

“I am trying to save us all from ruin!” There was a brief shocked silence, and Miranda leaned closer, eyes widening. “Do you have no notion,” George breathed at last, “of who Alfred Hamilton was? Of _what_ he was?” 

“A thorn in our sides,” Sarah answered. “An obstacle -”

“And he knew it!” George answered. “Good God, woman! Did you not think for one moment of why John never had him removed before now?” 

“I know it all too well, and I think you will agree that his death was a less unappealing turn of events than the outcry that would have resulted had he testified, in court, about your activities and his part in them,” Sarah answered. “You should count yourself fortunate that I have not seen fit to share those activities with John.” 

“His son -”

“His son has concerns, you fool, other than your meaningless, petty little career. Do you honestly imagine that he would turn you in? What could he possibly gain from it that he could not have at a moment’s notice now?” 

“I do not know but I would prefer not to take the risk. With his wife in our keeping, he will not dare to -”

“And what are you planning on doing with her, exactly?” Sarah asked waspishly. “Keep her at the top of a tall tower like Rapunzel in some fucking fairy tale?” 

“The boy is -”

“The _boy_ , as you term him, is a man full grown, and a peer of the realm,” Sarah hissed. “That man is now in command of a very large fortune, an equally large cohort of supporters, and a wife who only this morning informed me that your men had been sent to abduct her from her carriage, manhandling her in a shameful fashion before she took it upon herself to set herself free. Whatever damage control you were attempting to perform has failed, miserably, and now Lady Miranda is ready to tell the world, George! May I remind you what Thomas Hamilton _does_ to those he finds inconvenient, let alone those who threaten him? Dear God - Alfred was his father, and he had no qualms about disgracing him! Imagine what he will do to us!” 

“He cannot threaten us if his wife is -”

The sound of a slap rang out, and Miranda jumped, looking around her once again. The hallway remained deserted, although how long that would hold true was anyone’s guess, and she did the best she could to tuck herself even further into a shadowed corner. 

“You fool,” Sarah breathed. “You utter, mindless, useless cretin. Have you any idea what the new Earl will do to us all?” 

“You think that I do not know -” 

“You have _no idea_ the things I have done to hide your blundering from your brother - the things I have done to prevent you from bringing his career crashing down along with our entire house, and now - now, when Lord and Lady Hamilton were about to leave for New Providence - when we were finally _safe_ -” 

“Alfred’s death left a rather large gap in our finances, or perhaps you had forgotten? You call that safe?”

“SILENCE!” The Duchess’ voice rose, and Miranda raised an eyebrow, impressed at the volume. There was a brief silence - apparently even George Churchill had not expected quite such a response. 

“You will clean up this mess,” Sarah ordered after a moment. “Lady Hamilton tells me that you have taken her lover, the Captain that she and her husband have become so close to. I don’t know what led you to make the decision, and I do not care, as it is perhaps the only sensible thing you have done in this entire catastrophically stupid endeavor. Ensure that he is kept safe and treated well, and when I return, you will allow me to speak with Lady Hamilton. Above all else - _all else_ \- you will say nothing of any of this to John.” 

There was a second silence, and then the Admiral’s voice sounded again.

“If I go down,” George Churchill said, almost conversationally, “you’ll go with me. It would almost be worth it.” 

Miranda could hear the Duchess’ breathing - could hear her fury even through the door. 

“If you go anywhere near my husband,” she breathed at last, “if you attempt to contact him - if you dare to ever again _breathe_ in a way that might harm him - I will ensure that you spend whatever is left of your miserable existence screaming in agony without respite. Mark my words, George - I will set you on fire from the inside such that no water in the world will be sufficient to smother it, so help me God.” She turned, her skirts rustling - 

And Miranda hurried away down the hall. She had heard all she was likely to - all that might be of any use - and she had no desire to be caught listening for more. 

She needed, she thought grimly, to have a look at George Churchill’s papers. She had anticipated the need when she had entered the house, but it had become only more urgent in the face of the conversation she had just overheard. Somewhere, James was being kept to be used - was imprisoned, and she would not tolerate it. If she could make her way to Churchill’s study, she could either find the answer among his papers, or she could lie in wait for him and force the answer from him. Either way, she would find James, and then -

She took a deep breath. She had come here tonight with the full intention of treating the Churchills to a dose of the same bitter medicine she herself had been force fed once, and in truth, the desire to do so still remained. She could not stop hearing the Duchess’ voice in her head - the sound of the other woman ordering George Churchill to hold James prisoner as presumable assurance of Miranda’s acquiescence to their latest scheme, and the thought burned. And yet -

“ _If you go anywhere near my husband,_ ” Sarah had said, and Miranda could not help but understand the sentiment. The Duchess, she realized, was not doing this out of maliciousness. The desperation in her voice - the sheer anger - was as familiar to Miranda as breathing, and she could not help but sympathize with the other woman’s predicament. She had solved a problem - had, in fact, done Miranda herself a very large favor in the process of doing so, and this was her reward, this mess that was not of her making. It was not her fault, and yet it had become her problem, one that she was still attempting to solve without further bloodshed and a minimum of heartache even as she tried to protect her husband from the fallout of his brother’s stupidity. Was that not worth some small consideration? 

_No_ , something small and petty and utterly, utterly furious wailed inside her. No, it was not enough - would never be enough to warrant mercy. The Duchess, her husband the Duke, the Admiral - the titles only helped to establish their guilt, for had they not sat by in another life and watched while Miranda’s life was destroyed? Had they not been complicit in James’ disgrace, in Thomas’ murder? What mercy did they deserve, no matter their motives? 

It did not matter - not yet. The question was irrelevant at the moment. She began walking again, refusing to spend another moment considering. She needed to find James - to free him and see his condition for herself. Then, and only then, would she allow herself to contemplate her next moves. She could not make any decision without -

The scream sounded from behind her, close by and piercing, loud enough to rouse the entire household. It was high-pitched - full of terror, entirely too ill-modulated to belong to an adult - and familiar.

“Abigail,” she murmured, her heart stopping in her chest for the space of a moment. “No.”  
******************************************************  
_London_ :

Admiral Hennessey’s home, Thomas thought privately, was not what he had been expecting.

Having met the man, he had expected, somehow, something - darker in tone, not in mood, but merely in the color scheme. He had anticipated dark woods, rugs and drapes to match, and paintings of naval battles - something, in other words, like his London office, and to a certain degree, he had been correct. Hennessey’s private study and the drawing room, such as it was, certainly reflected the man who lived here, but the rest -

He stood in the front foyer, looking up at the ceiling. The house, he thought, certainly could not have belonged to Hennessey from its first construction and decorating, not for any lack of funds on the older man’s part, but simply because he could not picture Hennessey commissioning the soaring, open spaces for himself. Then again, though - Hennessey was a sailor, and what was the sea if not a great deal of open space?

“So - did you grow up here?” John’s voice sounded from behind him, and he turned to find James and John both standing behind him. James, he noted, still looked tired, and John looked little better, although as the youngest in body and most resilient of the three of them, he undoubtedly looked less worn out than Thomas himself. 

They had spent the past several hours attempting to get some sleep, with varying degrees of success. Thomas had tossed and turned, unable to put Miranda’s predicament out of his mind, and finally managed a cat nap of no more than half an hour. James, still hurting from the injuries he’d garnered the night before, had done much the same, although he had slept longer, aided by his enviable ability to sleep under any circumstances - an ability, he told Thomas, he had gained aboard ships over the length of three decades. Thomas privately wished that the skill could be taught, rather than gained by experience alone, as he himself was not accustomed to this kind of extended stress without the benefit of rest. 

He wondered whether Miranda had had any rest. He wondered whether Miranda was being kept comfortably, or if -

“Thomas,” James’ voice came to him, and he shook his head. 

“Beg pardon,” he offered. “What were you saying, James?” 

“He was explaining how the chip in that bust got there and why he’s permanently forbidden from going anywhere near the kitchen,” John answered, his tone almost gleeful, and Thomas turned his attention to his lover, whose cheeks flushed, the red almost drowning out the freckles on his face.

“It was only once,” he said. “And in my defense that platter was unreasonably large. Who needs one the size of a nine year old child?” 

Thomas raised an eyebrow, and James gave him a guilty expression. 

“I think I’ve mentioned that I was young when Admiral Hennessey first took me on as his ward. The first holiday I spent here I -” He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “There may - may - have been an incident involving a very _large_ silver platter, the staircase, and a bust that just happened to be sitting at exactly the wrong height. I’m still not sure why it didn’t shatter entirely.” 

Thomas stared.

“You -” He looked at the staircase, and at the pedestal that housed a bust that, indeed, seemed to have a slight dent in it. “Christmas?” he asked, and James nodded, wincing. 

“Sledding season,” he confirmed, and Thomas could not help it - one corner of his mouth turned upward, quickly followed by the other. He raised a hand to his mouth, trying to cover his mirth, and could not quite manage it, the image of a very small James sledding down the staircase entirely too amusing to be ignored. James seemed to agree, as his embarrassed expression quickly gave way to a tell-tale grin.

“Mrs. Teller still chases me out with a broom if I get too close to the kitchen door,” he confessed, and then Thomas was laughing. It should not, he thought, have been all that funny, but the stress of the last two days made it seem somehow hilarious, keeping him laughing, shoulders shaking, tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes at the mental image presented.

“You -” he started, and then began laughing again, imagining James yelping and running from the cook and her broom. 

And that, he realized, had been the point. The laughter had finally subsided into chuckling, and he had only just started to regain control of his breathing properly, one hand still braced against his side, when he noticed John. He was standing next to James, his mouth quirked upward, not truly smiling, and yet -

He must, Thomas thought suddenly, have been a terrifyingly effective quartermaster. The laughter - Thomas’ laughter - had been the point of this. The distraction, more than anything, had been the desired effect, and while he did not doubt that John was as curious about James’ childhood as Thomas himself, he never, ever did anything without at least two motives, and this time was no different. He looked directly at John, who shrugged even as he grinned, and Thomas could not help but grin in return. John’s grin widened. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head toward James, and Thomas could not help but follow the direction of the tilt, looking toward his lover - at his smiling face, his green eyes resting on Thomas. Thomas allowed his eyes to travel over James’ face - over the fond expression on it, his eyes warm and amused, and understood. This, then, had been Silver’s goal - James, happy and distracted from the situation at hand when he could do nothing about it. 

“It wasn’t funny at the time,” James said. “I thought I was going to be kicked out for good. Fortunately Admiral Hennessey claimed he never liked that bust to begin with - belonged to the previous owner, evidently. They must not have liked it either.” 

“Well, who can blame them? I mean look at the fucking thing, it’s hideous!” John chimed in. He made a face, imitating the statue, and James laughed. John, Thomas saw, had turned his attention to James. He was watching, blue eyes focused, mouth half-quirked still, and one hand wrapped around the bannister, leaning as if to take weight off the side that Thomas knew had once sported a peg leg. Thomas was about to reach out - was about to gently correct John’s stance, in fact, so as to avoid him ruining the knee and hip on the opposite side unnecessarily, when he saw it. 

He had thought John Silver to be quite cunning - opportunistic, James had said, and devilishly clever, and above all else, a ruthless manipulator, entranced with the idea of power, capable of commanding it with frightening ease. A dangerous man, in other words, and one quite incapable of truly loving another person. 

James, Thomas suddenly realized, was quite possibly an idiot. He could not be otherwise, for what man in his right mind and possessed of a full complement of wits could look at the look on John Silver’s face right now and not see what was painfully plain to Thomas’ own eyes? Who could possibly -? 

Thomas closed his eyes for a moment. James, he thought fondly - his James, who had not changed so far over the years after all, especially not when it came to attachments and people’s feelings towards him. He released a huff of breath, and opened his eyes to find John still making a truly ridiculous face, and James watching him, somewhat reluctantly amused. Yes, Thomas thought - he knew that look, and it was a very good thing that they were all heading to New Providence when this was over, because -

The door, when it crashed open, startled all of them. James turned, startled, hand going to his hip as if for a sword, and John did much the same, while Thomas, for his part, jumped, a hand going to James’ shoulder, reaching out less to restrain but to put him within arm’s reach, ready to yank him out of harm’s way if need be. 

“Sir - Lord Hamilton!” He relaxed at the sound of the messenger boy’s voice.

“David,” he answered, relieved. “What-?”

“What is it?” James demanded, and David quailed.

“Not this again!” he said. “I’ve got a message for Lord Hamilton and so help me if you lay hands on me again-”

James rolled his eyes. 

“Oh for -” he muttered, and Thomas attempted not to laugh. “Did you want an engraved apology,” James demanded, “or would you be pleased if I swore never to do it again?”

“I’m certain that Captain McGraw regrets frightening you,” Thomas interjected. “The message, David?” 

David shook his head.

“Loony,” he muttered again, still side-eyeing James, and turned back to Thomas. “You’re to come to Windsor at once, sir. Lady Ashe sent a message. Lady Miranda is in Windsor, and she’s gone to Admiral Churchill’s home on her own. Lady Ashe says to come quickly, sir - she’s not seen Lady Hamilton in hours and Miss Abigail’s gone missing as well.” 

“What the hell do you mean, she’s gone to see Churchill?” James demanded. “Was that the entire message? Come back here -!” 

The boy proved entirely too nimble for him this time, hopping away from James’ outstretched hand, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone, heading toward the door.

“David -!” Thomas started, but it was too late. He was out the door and gone before any of them could blink. 

“Damn it,” James swore. “What in the fuck does she think she’s -?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Thomas answered. “John - see if you can’t find some pen and paper, won’t you? We need to notify Admiral Hennessey. We need to go to Windsor. Now.”  
******************************************  
_Windsor:_

She had not meant for the guard to hear her.

She had made it out of the carriage just fine. Father’s coachman was never very observant, and this was not the first time that Abigail had snuck her way into her parents’ carriage. Getting out without being seen was just a matter of timing her exit well, and time it she had, right down to the moment that old Hal the coachman sat down with a creak on the seat, hiding the sound of the door opening behind him. She had not dared to close it - that would have made too much noise. Hal would simply assume that he had neglected to latch it behind her aunt and Millie - he had done so in the past, after all, and Abigail was not too concerned about it, worried as she was about keeping up with Aunt Miranda without being seen.

The problem, she thought mournfully, was that Aunt Miranda was so tall - much taller than Abigail, and so she moved so much faster. It was hard with her short legs to keep up. Then, too, there was Millie to consider. Aunt Miranda might have had her attention on bigger problems, but Millie was smart, and she was used to Abigail’s tricks, which meant that Abigail was forced to stay further behind than she might otherwise have done, avoiding the maid’s sharp gaze, made even sharper tonight for that she was serving not only as guide and introduction to the house but as a sort of bodyguard. The result was that by the time Miranda and Millie entered the house they were heading for, Abigail was several yards away, and by the time that she caught up, her aunt and the maid had disappeared, leaving Abigail to wander, lost and increasingly frightened, through the house. 

Aunt Miranda, she thought, had said something about overhearing a conversation - something to do with the Duchess and an Admiral, and then she had said something about the Admiral’s papers. Abigail wasn’t sure where the Duchess and the Admiral would be, but she knew where grown-ups kept their papers. Papa, after all, had scolded Abigail once or twice about touching his papers, and told her that they were kept in a very specific order. The Admiral, she decided, probably had his papers in the same place Papa kept his - in his study, and Abigail could find that. And if she found it, maybe Aunt Miranda would let her help look at the Admiral’s papers. Mama had taught her to read last year, and she was getting good at it - Mama said she was, and the Admiral would surely have a lot of papers that Aunt Miranda wouldn’t want to go through herself. Resolved on her course of action, Abigail had turned toward the lower floors of the house, intending to find the Admiral’s study and wait there.

The Admiral’s study, she had decided after five minutes of waiting in it, was boring. It was so quiet there - filled, just as Abigail had thought with books and ink and quills and nothing, nothing at all, to entertain a little girl. There was not even a globe to spin like the one that Papa had in his study - just a lot of boring old maps and shelves of books. Even the desk seemed devoid of distractions, filled as it was with stacks of papers. She stood on the chair, attempting to read some of the ones on top, but they were all reports about this ship or that cargo, and she sat down again, disappointed. Why did adults have to be so boring?

There was a book out of place. It was the only interesting thing on the entire shelf filled with boring, boring account books and even more boring stuff about laws and sailing ships, and Abigail wanted to know what it was, since it was out of place. At the very least, she could put it back where it belonged, and then -

She tugged on the book, her chubby fingers closing on the spine, and gave a frown when it failed to move. That, she thought, was odd. It was just a book - unless there was something behind it? She tugged harder. No luck. Maybe if she pushed -?

The resulting creaking, grinding sound knocked Abigail off the chair she had been standing on with a startled cry. She landed with a thump against the floor and then scrambled backward as the bookshelf before her swung out, leaving her facing -

“Hey! What are you doing in here?” 

She spun, heart suddenly racing. Oh no. The guard in the doorway looked angry - angrier than she had ever seen an adult save Mama when Papa had done something she didn’t like. She gulped. 

“H - hello there,” she squeaked. “I’m -” 

“You’re in the lord’s study, is what you are!” the guard snapped. “Come here - hey!” Abigail did not let him finish his sentence. She was in trouble - she knew that much, and if she got caught, there was a very real possibility that Aunt Miranda would too and that -

That couldn’t happen. It couldn’t. She turned, running down the open passageway, and heard the door creak shut behind her, the mechanism triggered as a pressure plate depressed under her foot. She heard the guard curse and run after her, catching the door and pulling against it to keep it from swinging shut, grunting with the effort. Abigail kept running. It wouldn’t take the guard long to catch up to her - unless she ran fast enough, although she wasn’t sure where she would run to. Aunt Miranda, she thought with a sinking feeling, was going to be so angry.

********************************************************

Miranda turned, her heart sinking into her shoes, terror freezing her in her tracks. She knew that scream - knew the small person it belonged to, as well as she knew the same sound coming from her young niece, her sister’s eldest child. She picked up her skirts, prepared to run toward the noise - 

Running footsteps sounded, along with the sound of heavier footfalls close behind them. Abigail, her tiny face screwed up in fright, black hair streaming behind her, came running around the corner, closely pursued by a guard, and Miranda felt her thoughts begin to spin. Abigail was here. Abigail was here, and she had been caught, and if Miranda wanted any of this to mean anything, she could not allow her to be taken. If Abigail were found and questioned - if the Admiral learned that Miranda had been here - he would move James. He would move James, and he would find a way to punish Kitty for sheltering Miranda, and in the meantime, Abigail would be alone and frightened, stuck in a strange place with adults who did not care one whit about her well-being, and all because of Miranda. She would not allow it. She could not. She did not hesitate any further. As the running child came flying past her, she stepped out of the shadows. The guard, startled, motioned at her with one arm.

“Out of the way!” he barked, and Miranda took one step to the side. He passed her - 

And without allowing herself to think any further, without wasting another moment, she swung the heavy iron sconce that had hung on the wall at his head, knocking him to the ground. He gave a surprised grunt, and then he was down, unmoving, blood already showing on the back of his head. Abigail turned, confused at the odd sound behind her, and Miranda moved quickly to stand in front of the body, her skirts covering what had just occurred. 

“Aunt Miranda?” 

She moved forward quickly, grasping the girl’s hand. 

“Abigail,” she answered. “Come with me, quickly.”

“There was a man - he was right behind me -” the child started, and Miranda shushed her swiftly. 

“We haven’t the time for that,” she said. “Are you alright?” Abigail nodded. “Good.” Angry shouts sounded around the corner, and Miranda looked to the little girl beside her. “How many of them are behind you?” she asked, and Abigail shook her head, her eyes wide. 

“There they are!” 

Miranda did not wait any longer. She ran, Abigail right beside her, and prayed for her pursuers to trip.  
*************************************************  
_London:_

The horses stamped and pawed in their traces, and James looked upward, meeting the eye of the one next to him. 

“I know,” he said. “Believe me - I’d like to be away as well.” The horse stamped the ground again, and James reached out, petting its nose. It did little to calm his nerves, but the horse seemed to appreciate the gesture and it was certainly a great deal better than pacing or snapping at people for no better reason than because he was stuck here while -

“You know, talking to the horses is probably a bad sign,” John pointed out, and James gave him an unimpressed look. 

“Has anyone ever told you you have a singularly irritating way of trying to be helpful?” he asked, and John raised an eyebrow.

“Occasionally,” he answered. There was a smile on his face, James noted, but the look in his eyes belied it, showing concern instead. “She’s a resourceful woman, or so you once said,” he reminded. “I’m sure -”

“Resourceful and still in danger. Has there been any word yet?” Thomas asked. He had emerged from the house and now stood, looking as anxious as James felt, his blue eyes fixed on James’ face and his brows knotted together in a frown. James shook his head.

“Not yet,” he answered impatiently. “Damn it all, Hennessey, where -?”

As he was saying the words, he heard carriage wheels rattle, and the Admiral’s personal carriage came rolling into the courtyard of the house. The man himself hurried out of the conveyance a moment later, and strode toward James. He fished in his inside coat pocket as he did so, and produced a document, sealed with red sealing wax. He held it out to James as he approached.

“There,” he said as he got closer. “Your warrant. You can be on your way immediately, and I will follow behind as soon as I can round up a few more men I can be certain won’t turn on us.” 

James took the warrant from Hennessey’s outstretched hand. 

“Thank you, sir.” The term of respect rolled off his tongue without a second thought, and Hennessey gave him a half-smile.

“I owe Ned Russell no small debt for getting it so quickly,” he said. “Remember - you cannot actually accuse him of anything based on a note from an hysterical noblewoman. Don’t -”

“Kitty’s message hardly sounded hysterical,” Thomas put in from behind them. “Furious, maybe. I think we’d best be off - she’s likely to do something unwise if we don’t hurry. Admiral.” He nodded, and then he was grasping his horse’s reins, leading it away to mount it.

“James,” Hennessey said sincerely, “be careful. I’ll be along as soon as may be. If you should find Lady Hamilton -”

“I’ll give her your best and convince her not to do to you what she’s probably already done to George Churchill,” James answered. “Good luck.” 

“The same to you.” 

He turned, and swung into the saddle. It was a good feeling - it had been several months by his reckoning since he had last ridden, but he did not have time to enjoy the ride or to get to know his horse. 

“You think we’ll find him unharmed?” John asked, and James shook his head. 

“Under the circumstances… I think we’ll be lucky if the house is still standing when we get there.”


	16. All the King's Horses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So - first off, I am so sorry for the wait on this. I realize it's been a very long time indeed since I updated. There are reasons for that, chief among them being that I've had some medical stuff going on this past month which is now, thankfully, entirely over, meaning that I can focus on writing again. The other thing is that spring semester is hell not only for students but for those of us who work with students, especially in an admin capacity, which is what I do for a living, so writing and plotting and just generally thinking time has been at a premium. At last, though - here it is, Chapter 16, and while it's not quite the end chapter I had hoped for at first, it gets us closer to it at least. Also, have some OT4 and FlintHamilton feels. 
> 
> One day, I will learn not to post on Sundays, but it is not this day!

_ Windsor town:  _

Lady Ashe’s instructions had been quite clear. 

She had thought, at first, that she was in trouble. When Lady Ashe had called her to the study, she had been a mess of nerves, doing all she could not to wring her hands in despair. She needed this job. She needed it so very badly - her parents needed her to maintain this position so very badly, and what would her mother say if she were dismissed? Surely, Lady Ashe could not mind - it was not as if Millie had neglected her, after all. Her duties to the Admiral did not begin until her duties to her first mistress had concluded for the day, and it was not that she was disloyal to Lady Ashe - far from it. She would never have betrayed her secrets, and yet -

“Millie,” Lady Katherine had greeted, and Millie had felt her heart begin to pound even harder in her chest if that were possible. She dropped a curtsy, her eyes fixed on the floor below her.

“My lady,” she answered - and then, within the space of a few moments, her worries for her status in the house had vanished, replaced by a new set of problems altogether.

“You are to watch over Lady Hamilton,” the noblewoman had charged her, her voice firm, no-nonsense, her dark eyes as serious as Millie had ever seen them. “See her safely into the house and then go about your duties as normal. If any of the other servants should question her presence, divert them, and when you have completed your tasks for the night, see Lady Hamilton back here. Do you understand?” 

She had nodded frantically, chin bobbing up and down.

“Yes, ma’am,” she had agreed. 

“And if anything should happen - anything - you come to me. Do that - exactly that - and I shall consider all of this a very large personal favor, for which I will owe you a commensurately large sum.” 

She had looked up at that, shocked.

“Lady Ashe?” 

“I would imagine your parents would jump at the chance to see you a dowered young lady with the chance to marry your young stonemason,” the noblewoman murmured quietly, and Millie felt her heart stop.

“Ma’am -” she started, and then stopped, overcome. If the lady spoke true, then -

“I’m sorry, Millie,” Lady Ashe said quietly. “I’m sorry to put you in danger like this. Will you do this for me?” 

She nodded, still speechless. 

“Yes, my lady,” she croaked at last, and Kitty beamed.

It had been nearly half a day since that conversation had taken place. Her breath came short as she hurried toward Lady Ashe’s home, her clothing wrinkled, her carefully controlled bun beginning to fall to bits. She was late - oh, so very late, and the news was so very bad, and -

“Millie!” 

The head maid’s voice was sharp with worry, and she looked up, feeling a great wash of relief at the sight of the woman’s frowning face. 

“Lord, girl - where have you been, we were all -”

“I’m fine,” she panted. “I’m fine, but Lady Hamilton isn’t and I need to speak to Lady Ashe - I need to talk to her  _ now _ -”

“Slow down, girl - where in the name of God and -”

“Where is she?” Millie demanded. “Agatha - where is Lady Ashe? I must -”

The other woman threw her hands in the air. 

“You must!” she exclaimed. “You must, and Lady Hamilton must, and her Grace the Duchess must, and everyone  _ must _ ! As if the woman didn’t have troubles enough -”

“Agatha - where is Lady Ashe?” Millie’s voice shook, and the older woman rolled her eyes.

“She’s gone, girl! Gone to find her daughter no doubt, and the Duchess hard on her heels. There’ll be tears by the end of the day, or a hiding for the girl, and either way, you’ve duties to attend! It’s a mercy -”

“The Duchess was here?”

“She came early this morning. Left like the devil herself was on her heels the moment she heard Lady Ashe had gone and where. Nobles!”

Millie turned, a cold chill running down her spine. She swallowed.

“Agatha - did you say that you have a son in Sussex?” she asked, and the older woman stared at her.

“I did,” she admitted slowly. “What -?”

“Good,” Millie murmured. “That’s good.” At least one of them would have somewhere to go when this was over. 

**********************************************

_ Windsor Little Park: _

“You understand, of course, that this could be dangerous?” 

It was perhaps the fifth time he’d asked the question. It wasn’t, James thought, that he did not trust Kitty Ashe. The woman had every reason to aid them, from her five-year-old daughter being presumably in the house alongside Miranda to Miranda’s presence there - provided, of course, that she was telling the truth.

He looked at the woman who had called them there - who had, in fact, met them on the lawn outside George Churchill’s home - again. Kitty’s long, dark hair was still coiffed, but it looked as if it had been done the day before, not this one. Her eyes were still puffy and red at the edges from worry and from weeping, and her mouth was set in a determined, grim downturn that told him all he needed to know. Kitty was not lying about her daughter being in danger, and James could only hope that she was equally not lying about Miranda having gone into Churchill’s house. Surely, if this were a trap of some kind, set after James had evaded capture, it was superfluous at best and downright stupid at worst? After all - if Miranda was in Churchill’s custody, Thomas had already been notified and would have been coming here anyway. If not - 

Therein lay the rub, and it was the other reason that James had formulated the plan that he had upon arriving in Windsor.

“Captain - I would point out that I grew up here. I know these woods like I know the back of my own hand - there’s no need to fear.”

He grimaced, but gave her a tight nod.

“Alright.” 

“You will see to my daughter,” she ordered, and he nodded. 

“Of course.” 

“You have our word,” Thomas answered, and she nodded. 

“Well then. Wish me luck, gentlemen.” 

She turned, and started down the lane, heading toward the front door that lay before them at a fair distance. They watched her leave. 

“Do you think they’ll listen to her?” John’s voice was quiet. 

“I think that if they do we’ll know that she’s telling the truth, and if they don’t then we’ll have removed a problem from our midst,” James answered, and Thomas turned. His brows furrowed, and his blue eyes fixed on James.

“James - what are you doing?” 

He sounded concerned, and James grimaced. 

“Kitty will be going to the house,” he answered Thomas, who raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he acknowledged. 

“She’ll draw out Churchill’s guards. John - you’ll go in and scout the house. Find Miranda and bring her to us if you can, and if you can’t, report back and we’ll go in after her. When Hennessey’s men arrive, they can round up Churchill and his guards.” 

Thomas stared. 

“You don’t trust Kitty.” His eyes were still fixed on James, startled understanding coming into them, and James shook his head.

“Not with this,” he answered. “Not with -”

“James - the woman’s daughter is missing. You’ve seen her yourself -”

“And I have no way of knowing if Abigail came with Miranda to this house, as she says, or if the girl was taken as a means of getting Kitty to do as she’s told,” he answered. “I won’t risk our lives by making a mistake about this. John -”

“You can’t seriously mean for us to sit here and wait while John and Miranda -”

John stepped forward and laid a hand on Thomas’ arm. 

“He’s right,” he said quietly, and Thomas turned. “He’s right,” Silver repeated, his gaze cutting to James as he spoke. “If Lady Hamilton is in that house, we will need to find her. That’s best done without a dozen guards patrolling the place.”

“And if she’s not?” Thomas asked. “The park grounds are large. If she’s being hidden somewhere near the house or at the other end of the forest -” 

“The Admiral can hardly refuse to search for the woman’s daughter,” John answered patiently. “After all - he’s the Ranger of the park, and he certainly won’t be able to deny a mother the chance to aid in searching for her child. If he insists on keeping Lady Ashe in the house, we’ll know that Lady Hamilton is in the forest. If he allows her to leave, then we know that your Miranda is in the house.” 

Thomas stared at him, and James couldn’t quite help the smile that curled at the edges of his mouth. He and Thomas were partners in everything and he loved Thomas’s intellectual wit and keen mind, but he had missed John’s much-needed cynicism and his ability to follow James’ reasoning well enough to explain it where James himself often lacked the patience to do so. 

“What if you’re detained yourself?” Thomas asked. “Isn’t that handing them leverage of a different sort?” 

John turned to James, an affronted look on his face.

“It’s as if he doesn’t know anything about me,” he said, and Thomas looked between them. 

“Remind me to tell you about the time we were about to be kicked off the crew after a mutiny,” James said, and Thomas raised an eyebrow. 

“A mutiny?” he asked, and James shook his head. 

“Later,” he promised. “He won’t get caught, and if he does, he can talk his way out of it.”

“Or shoot them,” John interjected. “You won’t remember, but -”

“No deaths,” James answered firmly. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not fleeing England again because you couldn’t recall how to wound rather than kill.”

John rolled his eyes, exasperated.

“Yes,  Captain ,” he answered, and Thomas shook his head. 

“She doesn’t know John, and if she does, it’s only as James’ former quartermaster. She has no cause to trust that he’s anything but a lure. I’m going with you. It’s the only way to ensure -”

James felt the amusement drain away in the space of a heartbeat. He frowned. 

“Absolutely not.”

“James -” 

“The entire purpose of this scheme was to draw you here - to force you to do as Churchill wants. If you go in there -”

“It’s not as if I’m planning on knocking on the front door,” Thomas answered firmly. “One of us needs to go, and it can’t be you. If anything were to happen, you can’t run, not on that knee. You stay here - that way when Hennessey arrives, he’ll know where we are and he can deploy his troops accordingly.”

“Thomas -” James started, and then stopped, turning. He had heard a sound - the sound, he realized, of hooves, and he gripped hold of Thomas’ and John’s arms, drawing them backward and into the cover of the hedges surrounding the house as a group of horsemen went by. James caught sight of Kitty Ashe’s skirts as she passed them by, riding as part of the group, and he gave a sigh of relief. The house, then, was where they needed to search. He turned back, frown firmly on his face.

“I’m not allowing you to -” he started. 

“James,” Thomas said, and James could not help but wince. Thomas’ expression was not angry - far from it, but it was all too easy to imagine how his younger brothers must have felt every time they disappointed him as children. His eyebrows were raised, his blue eyes boring into James’ own, absolutely refusing to back down, and his mouth was set into a line that had no give in it whatsoever. James swallowed hard, his hand going to his lover’s arm. 

“Thomas,” he started. “You can’t -” 

“We’ve discussed this,” Thomas answered quietly, and James swallowed hard. They had. They had talked about this - had discussed it at length, in fact, and yet now -

He closed his eyes, and his breath shook in his chest as he drew it in slowly. No. No, no, no. 

“If you go in,” he managed at last, his voice rough, “if you insist on doing this -” He opened his eyes. Thomas was still staring at him, and James could not quite fight off the wave of panic that washed over him. Thomas would go into that house. There was nothing James could do to stop it, short of doing exactly what he had sworn he would not. He could not treat Thomas like an incompetent, and that meant he would go in, and it would be Bedlam all over again. He would die. He would never -

No. No, this was not happening again - not like it had last time.  He stepped forward, ignoring the twinge in his knee, ignoring everything around them, and drew Thomas to him as he did so, hand pulling on his lover’s arm as the other rose to cup Thomas’ jaw, and he kissed him, fiercely, his lips hard and uncompromising against Thomas’. He was not doing this again - this parting where one of them disappeared never to be seen again without the chance to say goodbye, or to say anything. He was not letting Thomas go this time without knowing that James wanted him back above all other things in the world, and he kissed him as if he meant to impart all of the things he could not bring himself to say with his lips. Thomas’ hands rose, clutching at the back of James’ head, his fingers winding into James’ hair, and James nipped hard at his lower lip, intent on leaving a bruise if not actually breaking the skin, marking his lover as a reminder. He did not let go immediately, meeting Thomas’ blue eyes with his own. He could not forbid his lover to go but this - this he could do.

“You have half an hour,” he said, voice as hard as his kiss. “You go in, you find Miranda, and you bring her out, and if you’re not back in that time -” He stopped, and Thomas right hand moved, caressing James’ jawline, mouth set. 

“I’ll expect you to come for me,” he answered, voice still quiet but firm, his gaze serious. 

“And don’t do anything stupid hoping to keep me from coming in,” James ordered. “I swear, Thomas -”

“I’ll be careful,” Thomas promised. “Truly. This is not a sacrifice play. I meant what I said.” 

There was no lie in his voice, and James took another deep breath. He did not let go - not yet, preferring to leave his hands where they were, touching Thomas, one hand on his neck and the other inside his coat, fisted in the excess fabric of his shirt at the waist. 

“Did you bother to bring a weapon?” he asked, and Thomas shook his head. 

“There were none to hand,” he answered, and James shook his head. He withdrew his hands reluctantly, going to the sword belt at his own waist, and he unbuckled it, handing the sheathed weapon over to Thomas, who took it, belting the weapon at his own side. James took a moment to memorize the slide of Thomas’ fingers over his own, the heat of his skin, as if he might never feel either again. 

“I’ll keep the pistol,” James said. “I know I’ve told you you’re a decent shot but that was before I spent ten years with men who made their living shooting people. John -”

“I’ll look after him,” John promised, and James shook his head. That had crossed his mind, yes, but - 

“I don’t suppose I have to tell you to watch your back?” he asked, and John’s eyes widened. James nodded. “Don’t get killed,” he cautioned, his voice firm, and John grinned.

“When have I ever?” he asked. 

“It only takes once,” James reminded, and John winced. 

“Point taken,” he answered, and turned to Thomas. “Come on.”  

Thomas turned and started to move. John, though, remained where he was, hesitating.

“Are you going, or not?” James asked. Silver stood, hands hanging at his sides, and for a second James thought he might turn - might walk away, might simply follow Thomas. The next moment -

Three long steps brought John back to James’ side, and then quite suddenly James found himself being enveloped in a hug, the younger man’s arms warm around him, his face pressed into James’ shoulder. James froze and then, slowly, raised his arms, clasping them around Silver’s back to return the embrace. 

“Second chance, right?” John said, muffled, against James’ shoulder. He pulled back. “I didn’t get to do that last time. Didn’t want to miss the opportunity now.” He pulled away from James, and straightened his clothing. He nodded. “Half an hour,” he said, and then strode away, following Thomas, leaving James to stare after him and wonder what in the hell he was supposed to do with the warmth that was spreading through him and the feeling of John’s hands still lingering where they had pressed into him, fully as much a reminder of his presence as the bruise James had left on Thomas’ lip. 

*****************************

The house had gone strangely quiet. 

Miranda’s legs ached. Her back similarly complained of its lot in life, and she was resolutely ignoring her stomach, which told her that it had not been fed since sometime the day before. Next to her, Abigail slept, her small, round face looking peaceful, but Miranda knew that she would awake fretful, hungry, thirsty, and in little better shape than Miranda herself. She was contemplating ending the chase - coming out of hiding, giving herself up to allow the child to be tended properly - when the soldiers began to withdraw.

She scarcely believed it at first. The sound of booted feet moving away was far too close for comfort - were they moving toward her or not? Was that -?

“I wish the Admiral would make up his mind,” one of them said, just outside the door, and Miranda felt her heart begin to race. They were close - so very close to her, and suddenly her breathing was too loud - each tiny little sound made by Abigail in her sleep a thunderclap. She froze, listening, waiting.

“Not our place to ask questions,” another voice answered, and the first snorted. 

“Not asking any,” he answered. “Just wish he’d decide whether he’s afraid of getting murdered by the Duchess or not.” 

“Can’t be that worried if he’s going out riding. Stupid orders or not - I’ve not been out of this house for three days. You won’t hear me complaining about leaving it.” 

Laughter sounded from the other side of the door, and then she heard footsteps, fading into the distance as the two men moved away. Miranda took a deep breath, her hands shaking. They were moving off. They were moving out of the house - away from her, away from Abigail, and she did not know what had prompted the Admiral to give the order but she could guess. 

“Kitty,” she murmured. “If it is the last thing I do, I will convince you to come away from this country with us, for this alone.” She turned back to her friend’s daughter, quick steps taking her across the room, and she knelt at Abigail’s side. 

“Abigail,” she called softly. “Abigail - wake up. Abigail.” 

The child stirred, and Miranda reached out, taking hold of her shoulder gently. 

“Abigail,” she repeated, and Abigail woke, eyes flying open, instantly alarmed. She calmed when she saw Miranda, who smiled at her. 

“Time to leave. Come,” she whispered. The little girl got to her feet, her movements careful, quiet, and Miranda felt a swell of affection. Yes - Kitty’s daughter was fully as smart as her mother, and Miranda could not have been prouder to call her niece. 

“Where are we going?” Abigail whispered, and Miranda’s smile widened. 

“Home,” she murmured. “Come along - we’ll be back with your mama soon. Quietly now - we’ll be out of this house in a few moments.” 

********************************************

Road to Windsor:

He had not been in the saddle for this long at a go since he was young, and he did not miss it.

He had grown up around horses. It was one of his father’s few passions - the raising and stabling and riding of the animals, and Hennessey himself had grown to appreciate the creatures. He had taught James how to ride when the boy was still young, but it had been years since either had had occasion to go for a ride, and he was feeling the lack now. When this was over, Hennessey thought, he would find time again. It would not do to lose the skill, or the stamina to endure the ride. He was not, he thought as he shifted in his saddle once again, going to become one of those pathetic old men who found themselves confined to a desk, sedentary and useless. No. He fully intended to -

“Admiral!”

The lieutenant riding next to him spoke, and pulled Hennessey from his musings. 

“Yes, Lieutenant, what is -?” 

He stopped. He could see it now. He pulled on his horse’s reins, bringing her to an abrupt halt, and he sat taller in his saddle, ignoring his aching muscles. 

“What in the blazes -?” 

In front of him, the lone rider in the road approached, and as she drew closer, Hennessey could make out a set of familiar features. 

“Saints preserve us -” he started to mutter, and the woman on the horse smiled.

“I seriously doubt that,” Sarah Churchill murmured. She pushed back the hood of her cloak, her blonde hair only slightly mussed. “I would have a word,” she said, “before you go to arrest my brother-in-law.” 


	17. And All the Admirals' Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks around a corner* I - can explain? 
> 
> So - I know it's been forfreakingever since I updated. I know that, but listen fam - the finale fucked me up. It fucked me up good, and I've been trying to find a way to continue this fic since. It took me a solid week to stop having static every time I tried to pick this up and write more of Chapter 17, which was only loosely pulled together. I kept trying to write Silver and, to make a long story short - 
> 
> I'm continuing this story. I'm going to end it on the high note I had planned originally. I'd left myself ample room to do it, and I've brought myself around to the point where I can do it, but not without some edits that the story needed badly anyway. I don't think anyone's going to be particularly lost if you just read the update, but I would recommend going back and rereading Chapters 8 through 16 if you really want to get the emotional arc I've got going for the character, which I realized was sort of missing in my original posted chapters and which I had actually intended from the start. Again - this is not something that was unplanned and it's not actually much of a reaction to the finale, it's just an incorporation of the finale since we have it and since I'd sort of left myself room for it that has now been filled in. I also know that I said this story was going to be 18 chapters. That was an inadvertent lie - I'm now looking at more like 19. Probably. Barring further developments. 
> 
> Mea culpa and don't kill me?

“Am I the only one who’s having trouble with the idea of doing this in the daylight?”

John had nothing against daylight. In practice, he was as fond of it as the next man. When he had first come to the West Indies, he recalled marveling at the sunlight that touched absolutely everything, turning his skin bronze and even creating a couple of distinctly brown strands in his hair which had formerly always appeared entirely black. He’d basked in it - taken delight in it, too, as he was reliably informed that it made his eyes stand out and his grin seem brighter, both of which had always worked to his advantage. But here and now - the light came pouring in from all angles, from windows situated in exactly the wrong places for stealth, and it seemed unnatural and out of place - better suited to a day spent on deck than moving quickly and quietly through a noble’s house like a pair of mice looking for cheese.

Beside him, Thomas gave a gentle huff of laughter.

“Yes,” he answered quietly, and John shot him a look. “You forget,” he whispered. “I grew up in a house like this one. We used to run from our tutors and hide until we could make our way outside, blackguards that we were.”

“We being -?” John asked, against his better judgment. Thomas gave him a grin.

“My brothers and I,” he clarified. “Will and Robert. I was usually the ringleader, I confess.”

John chuckled quietly.

“Now why does that not surprise me?” he asked, and Thomas grinned.

“Somehow I don’t imagine you were exactly a paragon of virtue either,” he said, and John snorted.

“I was an orphan. When we weren’t listening to Sister Margaret lecture us on proper behavior we were coming up with things to do to the horrible old bat that would make her scream. What do women have against frogs?”

Thomas laughed softly.

“I’ve no idea,” he answered. “Still - it’s nice to have company in the less-than-blissful childhood club. Of the four of us -”

“The _four_ of us?”

It was remarkable, John thought, just how quickly a conversation could turn bad. A frisson of - something - went up his spine, and he stopped in his tracks. This - was not good and oh fuck, for just a few moments he had forgotten - actually forgotten. About his betrayal. About what he still hadn’t told James. About the fear he had felt since he had found James in that alley and Christ, _fuck_ , why couldn’t it have gone on just a little longer? Just a little more before -

“Since when is there a four of us?”

The words scraped against his consciousness like a fork against china. There could not be a “four of them.” Thomas did not know that - could not know that, with what he had learned from James. James could not know it, and therein lay the rub, and here it was - the thing he had feared since he had first laid eyes on James - not for his own sake for once, but for James’, and for Thomas’, and for Miranda whom he did not even know properly and would not because clearly, he had become too close already. Too attached, and was that not what had tempted him before? Had that not been the architectural framework of his downfall before - the ruination of his life and James’ as well? He had no desire to allow it to happen again, but here was Thomas, talking about the four of them, and suddenly, the well-lit house had become ominous, the air stifling, too still. The four of us, Thomas had said, as if -

Thomas stopped as well. His fair hair was all but glinting in the sunlight, John saw, but he was more focused on the other man’s eyes - blue, and damnably sharp and oh why, why had he ever thought this man to be anything other than a mind the equal of his own - the equal of James, who had always been uncomfortably perceptive as well?

“There’s nothing wrong with it, you know,” Thomas said softly, “what you feel for James. I think, if you speak with him, you might even find -”

The air left John’s chest, and he stared. That was not - _he_ was not -

At another time, he might have held up a hand - might have used the bright rings on it to distract, the movement of it to draw attention away from his face. His hands, though, were shaking, and he left them at his sides, one clutching for the hand-rest of a crutch that was no longer there. Thomas knew. Thomas had somehow looked at him and seen what James, for all of his perceptiveness, had not in all the time they had been together and shitshitshitshitshitshit -

“Now wait one moment,” he began, his voice only a little unsteady. “It’s not - We’re not -” It was a lie. What was trying to come out of his mouth was a lie because whatever he and Flint had been - not what he and Thomas were but friends, partners, _brothers,_ it had been something - something special, something Silver hadn’t understood until much later, and shit, he had never intended to lie to any of them ever again, but damn his treacherous fucking mouth if it didn’t want to continue the habits of a lifetime, even now that John had left that lifetime behind. Damn it all to hell!

Thomas waited, both eyebrows raised.

“He’s my _friend_ ,” John finally said, “emphasis on the friend. Even in our last life, when we might have -”

Thomas continued to wait, and John stared at him, mouth open.

“We weren’t like that,” he said finally. “Christ, you don’t think -”

“I think,” Thomas said quietly, “that whatever you are to one another, you’ve followed him here for a reason.”

“I didn’t lie awake one night and wish to fall nearly three decades into my own past if that’s what you’re saying,” John snapped. It was true. He had not wished for it one night - he had wished it _every_ night for the past twenty years, and apparently God had a sense of humor - a sick, twisted sense of humor (or simply a highly convoluted and ineffable understanding of what constituted appropriate vengeance, and _there_ was a terrifying thought for another day. What if this was only the first go round of a never ending string of resurrections? Would he fail in all of them? Was that the punishment?) Thomas shook his head.

“No, I didn’t mean - not here as in here in this year. Here as in - here, in this house. Apologies - time travel makes for confusing language usage.”

“You’ve no idea,” John answered with a snort. “Still - you can’t possibly mean -”

“John - if I might -?” Thomas looked at him, and John frowned.

“I don’t suppose you’ll actually stop if I tell you to fuck off?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“John,” he said, and John stared at him. He could not deny this, he realized - Thomas was not going to let him, and that meant -

“Go on,” he croaked.

“You put yourself in danger for James last night.” He said it baldly, no sugar-coating it. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you woke several months ago now to find that you were young again, two legs, the full complement of eyes, fingers, and other appendages, with all the world in front of you and the skills do whatever you like in your new life. And yet, as of last night, you were still hanging about London, no noticeable aim in mind-”

“I meant to board a ship two days from now -” John started, and the corner of Thomas’ mouth lifted knowingly.

“I don’t suppose you were headed to Paris, by any chance?” he asked, and John could not help the flush that darkened his cheeks.

“Nassau,” he admitted, and Thomas gave him a knowing look.

“Why am I not surprised?” he echoed, and John scowled.

“It wasn’t like that!” he protested. “Everything I’ve done - everything I’ve been - and you think I’d be willing to leave it all behind me to be - what, in England, exactly?”

“And yet here you are, your life in danger, risking further injury and the ruin of your chance at better,” Thomas pointed out. “And all because of - what, bad luck?”

John looked away.

“Not - precisely,” he admitted, and when he looked back, Thomas was staring at him. “I heard your name in the street and I was curious!” he defended. “The fact that James was likely to be in the same vicinity was -”

 _Overwhelming_ , he wanted to say. _Frightening. Exhilarating. Heart-rending._ Certainly, it had robbed him of all reason beyond wanting to go to him - beyond wanting to see his friend again, to -

To be done, one way or another, with the guilt that had been eating him from the inside out for the past two decades. To tell James what John had discovered in the wake of his stupid fucking decisions. To -

He could not do this - now, more than ever, he had an ironclad reason not to do this. Not to allow this. He turned away, preparing to put the discussion to rest.  

“I didn’t -” he started, and Thomas’ gaze stopped him in his tracks, the words faltering.

“I saw the alley where you found him,” Thomas said softly. “I saw it, John.” His voice was soft, but his blue eyes were still fixed on John. He had seen - which meant -

Oh. Fuck.

*************************************************

Five minutes had passed.

He knew it - knew it as surely as he had always known it, ever since he had first learnt to keep time by the position of the sun and ringing of the ship’s bell, and yet, had James been asked at that very moment how long Thomas and John had been in Churchill’s home, he would have been prepared to swear that an hour had passed, no less. It certainly felt it, the seconds stretching into eternity ahead of him. Five minutes. It was so short a time, and yet he had known all manner of things to go terribly, horribly wrong in less - plans gone wrong, mutinies begun, men dead so fast they hadn’t had time to blink. Five minutes could be eternity -

And right now it certainly seemed to last for one. The wind rustling in the trees, the birds singing, the buzz of bees exploring the surrounding plant life - it all sounded too loud to James’ ears, next to his racing heartbeat. It was quiet out here - so very quiet. Too quiet -

Or so he thought until he began to hear hoofbeats. He turned, surprised, and saw with a sense of alarm a party of riders coming down the path toward the house. Before he could move - dart for the bushes or the house, either - the lead rider raised a hand.

“James!”

His eyes widened, and with a start he recognized Admiral Hennessey, his hat pulled low over his face and a scarf pulled up over his mouth, presumably to keep debris from the road out of his face.

“Sir?”

****************************************************

The words hung in the air, and John felt something in him twist. He knew. Thomas knew, but - Silence reigned between them for a moment, and John fished for words - for reasons.

“You - saw,” he repeated. “You saw, but you have no way of knowing -”

“There wasn’t enough blood on James’ clothing this morning to account for the way that man died,” Thomas continued, relentless. “And unless James has suddenly begun lying for no reason I can see, that means that it was you, and if so -” He took a deep breath.

“He was going to kill James,” John defended. “Before you condemn -”

“I know,” Thomas interrupted. “I’ve seen James’ injuries, remember? I know, and we can either keep dancing around this or you can admit that you killed him - bashed his bloody skull in - because you were afraid for James and because -”

“Stop.” The word was a whisper. “Just - stop.” He could hardly breathe, the words all gathering together in his head, the conclusion they led to one that he had pondered more times than he cared to consider in the dead of night, and now -

“You love him.” Thomas’ voice was gentle, but it hit John as if he had actually been struck. “You love him as though he were your own flesh and blood, and I think it’s time you both -”

Something snapped.

“I betrayed him.” The words came out of him, harsh - harsher than he had intended, but God, he could not allow this to continue - could not allow Thomas to keep going down this road. To keep looking at him like he was something he wasn’t - someone he hadn’t been in years untold if ever.

“I betrayed him,” he repeated himself, and felt something loosen. There - he’d said it. The lie was undone, the truth out in the open, and Thomas could stop looking at him like -

“What do you mean?” the taller man asked, and John discovered a new kind of hell in the way that Thomas’ blue eyes pierced through him.

“I -” he started, and then stopped. “I betrayed James,” he croaked again. The words wanted to come out - wanted to spill out of him in a torrent, and he could not do this, not now, not here, not when so much stood on the line, and yet - “I betrayed his cause. I was a fucking coward and I turned on him when he needed me the most. I fucked up, and I did it so badly that I could not see a way to undo it once it had been done. If there were any justice in the world or if I had any goddamn sense, I would have gotten him to somewhere safe last night and then called a doctor to look after him instead of staying myself because I still can’t figure out how to apologize well enough to make it right. I’m not sure the words even exist to make that apology. If I were half the person he thinks I am, I’d have gotten the fuck out of his life before I could do more damage than I already have.”

“John -” Thomas started, and John held up a hand.

“No. Let me finish. If you knew the half of what I’ve done, you’d shoot me yourself. I. Cannot. Love him - not as a friend, not as a brother, not as anything, not after the last time we did this. Not after what I did. Take from that what you will, but please believe me when I say that you don’t want me to care about him - not if you love him.”

“Are you saying that as the man you are or the man you were?” Thomas asked, and John turned back.

“What kind of fucking question is that?”

“The man you remember - the life you remember - they’re both gone,” Thomas said. “John -”

The words hurt. John felt a hard lump settle in his throat, and he swallowed.

“Don’t,” he begged. “Just - don’t. I said I would help you find your wife. Let’s do that and then -”

“You intend to what - leave?” Thomas asked incredulously. “Likely without a word to James to explain why?” His blue eyes were focused on John, and John rounded on him

“I ruined his life once,” John snapped. He could not take this - could not bear to stand the weight of Thomas’ scrutiny, could not keep thinking about this. “I hurt him immeasurably - more than you can possibly imagine, more than I can believe myself when I look back on it. I’m not doing it again, and if that means leaving then so help me God -”

Thomas was staring at him, and he stopped. 

“What?” he asked.

“You and I,” Thomas said slowly, “need to have a very long talk about fate and inevitability. John -”

“You don’t know what I did!” John answered, his voice rising, loud enough to carry. “For fuck’s sake - you don’t know the first thing about me! You think everything can be fixed with a word and a gesture and you don’t know - you don’t understand -”

“Then tell _me_.” The voice that interrupted him came from behind them, and they turned at the same time. The tension that had been building in the corridor dissipated, as did the stress that had lined every part of Thomas’ body up until that moment.

“Miranda,” he breathed, and then he and his wife were moving toward one another, Miranda’s tired smile in answer being hidden in Thomas’ shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her. They clung to one another for a moment, and John stood, waiting, as Miranda’s hands clutched at the fabric of Thomas’ shirt and as he cradled the back of her head in one hand, the other wrapping around her back. They held onto one another for a moment and then Thomas bent slightly, kissing her forehead.

“I thought I had lost you,” he murmured, and she shook her head.

“I’m here,” she answered, and he pulled her to him again, embracing her hard.

“I am so sorry I put you through that,” he told her, and she simply returned the embrace.

“Never again,” she swore, and then, finally, they pulled apart, wiping at tears and smiling at one another.

“Abigail,” Thomas asked, looking to the child that stood behind Miranda, “are you alright?” The child did not answer - her lip trembled and she held out her hands, causing Thomas to bend and pick her up, hugging her as she cried against his shoulder, and he looked to Miranda.

“She’s tired but I think she’ll be well enough, given time,” his wife answered his unspoken question. “We’ve both had a long night.” She turned to John, and quite suddenly he found himself being studied by a pair of dark eyes.

“Mr. Silver,” Miranda said, her tone made of the flint her other husband had taken for his name, and John gulped. “I believe I heard you say something about having betrayed James. Am I correct?”

“You did, but there’s no time for that now,” Thomas said quietly. “We need to leave. James gave us half an hour. If I’m not back in that time -”

“James is outside?”

**********************************

“ - and so our responsibility - our duty, in this, is clear. We will allow the Duchess to handle her brother-in-law, and we will find Lord and Lady Hamilton. Is that clear, Captain?”

James stood, staring at Hennessey.

“You would allow her to see to Thomas’ and Miranda’s safety?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to the noblewoman standing at some distance behind Hennessey’s right shoulder, and Hennessey sighed.

"We have no choice,” he answered. “I have spoken to her Grace, we have discussed matters, and I have agreed to allow her the leeway she requires.” He looked at James for a moment, and then reached forward, gripping his son’s arm. “James - I am asking you to trust me, and I swear to you I intend to be worthy of it. Will that suffice for an oath?”

James looked at him, and just for one moment, Hennessey wondered if he would go through with whatever he was planning instead. There was a war going on underneath the surface - one he understood better, now, than he had previously. He could see the doubt, the fear, the anger - and above all else the fragile hope that underlay it all. At last, though, James nodded and Hennessey breathed a sigh of relief.

“Alright,” he agreed. “She told you, specifically, that we would be permitted to go into the house and that -” he stopped, looking again at the party of soldiers behind Hennessey - “Lord and Lady Hamilton and Miss Ashe would be released unharmed?”

“That was the guarantee I received,” Hennessey told him. James threw a look over Hennessey’s shoulder, and when he spoke again, his voice was lowered.

“You trust her when she gives her word?” he asked, and Hennessey snorted.

“I wouldn’t trust any of the family as far as I can throw them, but I find that agreeing with them at the outset of an argument usually affords me more room to do as I like later,” he answered, and one corner of James’ mouth twitched upward in a conspiratorial smile.

“So long as we’re on the same page,” he said, and Hennessey nodded.

“We are,” he answered. “Now - I believe it’s time that we -”

Hoofbeats sounded in the distance, and he turned, cursing as he reached for the reins of his horse.

“Damn it - Churchill is on his way back. James -”

His son had turned as well, and seemed to have read Hennessey’s mind, as he turned and mounted his own horse, showing considerably more ease in doing so than Hennessey recalled from the last time they had ridden together.

“I assume you have a plan?” James asked, and Hennessey nodded.

“I will do the talking,” he answered. “The Duchess will see to Lord and Lady Hamilton, and you will stay silent unless either the Duchess or her brother speaks to you directly, in which case I expect you to keep a civil tongue in your head. And James?”

James scowled.

“Yes?”

“If all should fail - if the Colonel* exhibits his usual lack of forethought and decides to blow us all to Kingdom Come - you are to withdraw to that house immediately and secure Lord and Lady Hamilton by whatever means necessary. When the nobility comes to blows, all bets are cancelled and I won’t risk the terms of our arrangement changing if the worst should occur. Do you understand?”

James looked at him, startled.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, and Hennessey nodded.

“Good. Now - let us go and see what Churchill has to say for himself.”

************************************

Miranda stood, still looking questioningly at Thomas, who nodded.

“Yes,” he confirmed, “He’s alright, I promise. We really must -”

“Oh thank God,” Miranda murmured. “He’s not injured?”

“A trifle bruised with a sprained knee, but he’ll be fine,” Thomas reassured. “Now let us -”

“We cannot simply leave.” Miranda interrupted him, and Thomas started, taken aback, weariness and surprise and worry passing over his face all in the same instant.

“Miranda -” he started, and John gave her a look, understanding flashing across his face.

“She’s right,” he said. “Blackmail?” he asked, and Miranda nodded.

“Thomas - I don’t know what sort of business Churchill and your father were involved in, but I know it existed, and I know that until he has what he wants, George Churchill will never stop trying to hurt us. I can’t just leave this house until I know that I have a means to ensure that we won’t be hounded and harassed no matter where we go. Please -”

There was a loud crack, and John shot forward almost before he could think about it, grabbing hold of both Thomas and Miranda and forcing them to duck as a musket ball came flying through the nearby window, landing in the wall directly behind where Thomas’ head had been only a moment ago. John stood and scrambled toward the window, looking down at the lawn below, heart suddenly racing, adrenaline rushing through him.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “We need to get out of here - now.”

********************************************

James could pinpoint the exact moment the negotiations, such as they were, had gone sour.

It was not, he thought, that he had had any expectations that they would succeed to start with. He was not so naive, nor did he think that either party had actually set out with any intention of truly trying to end this without shooting anyone. He had not lived in Nassau for ten years - truly lived there, run a ship out of its port, gone through just such negotiations a hundred times - without learning the signs of men who wanted a fight. Admiral Churchill, still sitting on his horse, his small mouth pressed into a flat line, his cold eyes narrowed, and the fist that was not holding the reins already balled into a fist around the handle of his pistol, showed all of them, as did his sister-in-law, the Duchess, who sat, a look of utter distaste on her face, her back a perfectly straight line, her voice a condescending drawl that set James’ teeth on edge despite the fact that it was not directed at him.

The moment the fighting became inevitable was the moment that the Duchess mentioned her husband. James could feel the shift in the air - could feel the tensing in every man from both nobles’ households.

“Your brother will understand,” the Duchess was saying. “God knows he has made allowance in the past. Beg his forgiveness -”

“For what?” the Admiral snapped. “For which crimes, exactly, or would you have me take them all on in your usual fashion? I warned you, Sarah. I warned you of what would happen if you did not cease your foolish -”

Sarah Churchill’s arm rose, a gun in her hand, pointed straight at her brother-in-law. Her hand did not tremble - and yet James saw her mouth, and he could not help but see the tightness in it. 

“Give in, George,” she advised. “For your brother’s sake, give in. George - please - for John -" 

There was a click. George Churchill’s hand twitched, and James swore, diving toward the Duchess just in time to pull her halfway out of her saddle the moment before one of Churchill’s men raised his gun and fired, pistol aimed right at the noblewoman’s chest. He rose again immediately, letting go of her, and took hold of his horse’s reins.

“Sir -” he started, and Hennessey gestured.

“Go!” the older man ordered, and James nodded.

“Captain - where in the hell are you going?” Sarah Churchill shrieked after him. “George -”

James could hear her swearing, and the sound of George Churchill coming after him, his horse not far behind James’. There was a third set of hoofbeats seconds later, and all three tore off toward the house as the sounds of gunfire emanated from the front lawn, accompanied by men screaming and Admiral Hennessey shouting orders.

"Bring as many of them in alive as possible!" the Admiral ordered. "Good God - stand down, damn you!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I refer to George Churchill as the Colonel here because it's the rank he normally went by during his time as an Admiral, since he held the rank of Colonel in the army and was more active in that service than in the Navy.
> 
> George Churchill:
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AGeorgeChurchill.jpg)  
> 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... *throws the chapter at everyone and runs* 
> 
> In all seriousness, everyone has Penflicks to thank for the update on this, because she kicked my ass into trying to finish it instead of letting it languish at 17 chapters. She's also going to provide the ass-kicking I'm probably going to need to do chapter 19, so everyone be nice to her!

When this was over, Miranda thought, she might actually strangle Silver. After all - if he was not there, then Thomas could not possibly argue with him at a volume that she could now testify was rather louder than musket fire.

_ “What the bloody hell do you mean, you kept it from him?” _ Thomas did not become truly angry often. She had heard him do so - of course she had, they had been married for ten years, but she could count on the fingers of one hand the times she had heard her husband sound the way he did now. “What in the  _ hell  _ were you thinking?”

“I told you!” Silver’s voice was equally strident - and equally concentration-shattering. “I betrayed him! I fucking lied to him and I imprisoned both of you, you think I don’t know what I did?”

Admittedly, she thought, it was very difficult to hear much of anything overtop the sounds of fighting that were still coming through the broken window. The crack of guns and the shouting could almost have been blamed for the volume at which Thomas and Silver were - she hesitated to call it conversing when it was closer to a shouting match of truly epic proportion.

“You _enslaved_ him!” Thomas snapped. “Call it what it was. Face what you’ve done, damn it!” 

_ “I fucked up,” he’d told them the moment they had reached Churchill’s study. “I should have told you earlier, and I’m sorry about that too. I - fuck, where do I even start?”  _

_ “You can start by not swearing in front of the child,” Thomas had reminded him, and Silver had frozen, turning to look at Abigail.  _

_ “Mama says that word is not nice,” she reminded him, and he winced. _

_ “Your mama is quite correct,” Miranda had told her. “Abigail - come here. Do you think you can find that secret passage that you opened earlier?” The little girl had nodded, and Miranda had given her a smile. _

_ “Good.” There was, she had found, a ball of string in Churchill’s office. She was not certain why - perhaps the man owned a cat, or possibly preferred to tie his papers rather than seal them with wax - it was not usual, but it would certainly be convenient, she supposed. Regardless - the string would now serve to keep Abigail occupied while the adults had a very serious conversation. _

“Enough,” she snapped finally. The two men turned.

“Miranda -” Thomas started, and Miranda pointed down the corridor. 

“There is a little girl at the end of that string,” she said, pointing toward it. “Thomas - Abigail must leave. Take her - get her out of here.” 

“I’m not leaving you here,” he started to protest. “We came to find you -  _ I _ came to find you, regardless of what Mr. Silver might have -”

“I’m still here, you know,” Silver said loudly. “And regardless of what you might think of my past, my motives now -”

“Are irrelevant,” Miranda snapped. “We need to have a discussion, Mr. Silver, and I refuse to do so with you and my husband attempting to make yourselves heard outside, to say nothing of within this room. Thomas - I love you. I will follow you, but for now - please.” 

Thomas looked at her. He looked at Silver - and he looked at the string, now stretched nearly taut, and he cursed under his breath.

“So help me God,” he said, looking to Silver. “If she comes out of this house with one scratch on her - if you even  _ think  _ of preserving yourself instead of her -” 

“Thomas!” Miranda’s voice seemed to bring Thomas up short. “I am perfectly capable of making my own threats,” she told him, and he gave her a chastised expression.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I -” He dragged a hand through his hair. “You will be careful?” he asked.

“Of course,” Miranda answered. “Now - go and find Abigail, get her to safety, and I’ll meet you when I have something with which to spike George’s wheel.” 

“Make that talk a thorough one,” Thomas said, and then he turned toward the passage entrance. 

“Abigail!” he called. “Abigail, I’m coming to you. Please don’t go any further.” 

He walked over the threshold, and disappeared down the corridor, and Miranda was left with Silver.

*******************************************************

George Churchill moved exceedingly fast for a man quickly approaching the end of his prime, James thought with a touch of desperation.

“Move, damn it!” He dug his heels into the horse’s sides, but it did no good - the poor creature was already going full tilt forward, the bit in its teeth the only thing that was keeping it under his control at all. He could, he supposed, give the mare her head, but that was taking a risk - one he could not afford at present. 

A gunshot sounded nearby, and he threw himself sideways. The horse reared - the world tumbled around him - 

The ground did not taste any better than he remembered it doing. He rolled, groaning - his ribs were the source of a sharp new ache and his leg was on fire, and Churchill - 

“George!” 

“Oh thank fuck,” James muttered, and allowed himself a moment to black out. The Duchess, it seemed, was not done with her brother-in-law and James was very done with being conscious.

************************************************

“Abigail,” Thomas called. “Abigail - oh thank God, there you are.”

The little girl, Thomas thought, had proven exceedingly elusive for someone more or less attached to a piece of string originating in George Churchill’s study.

“How long does this corridor go on?” he asked. It had seemed to stretch on forever - winding its way through the house, and God’s breath, who in the hell needed this much space for one secret passage? It was as long as the past two days had felt, surely, and he felt approximately as lost and frustrated at the damn corridor as he had been only moments before with Silver.

“Uncle Thomas,” Abigail whispered, and Thomas - 

Thomas could suddenly see why it was that Abigail had stopped where she had. 

“Ah,” he said. “Abigail - do you, by any chance, recall the path you took to get here?” 

The little girl shook her head, and Thomas bit his lip. 

“Yes, I was rather afraid that would be the answer,” he said. “Neither do I. Do you think you could follow the string back to your Aunt Miranda? I believe she will want to see this - all of this.” 

Abigail looked at him, and then back at the room they stood in, with wide eyes.

“Uncle?” she asked. 

“It’s going to be alright, just do as I say,” he told her, and he could only hope that the shifting shadows of the room had hidden from her the thing that caused his heart to pump faster, his hands to go clammy, and his breath to catch in his throat.

The Spanish flag, he thought, did nothing for the room’s ambience, and the white rose carefully executed overtop it still less. Miranda was going to find this room enlightening, to say the least.

“No wonder he wanted the lot of us dead,” he muttered, and sank onto the table, his knees feeling weak beneath him. “Fucking hell.” 

******************************************************

“Mr. Silver - do you know what I am going to do to you if I look back up and see you still standing there?”

“I don’t imagine it’s going to be pleasant.” The short man stood just within Miranda’s line of sight- she could see his hands where they hung at his sides. She could see how they shook, and she could feel a vast distaste well within her at the sight.

“Where exactly do you expect me to go?” he asked, and Miranda did not look up.

“Tell me, Mr. Silver,” she asked, “did you care, particularly, what would happen to my husbands the day you enslaved them?” 

She knows the answer already. So does he - his silence says as much.

“Thomas said thorough,” Silver pointed out. The words lacked conviction, though - the plea died halfway out of his lips, and Miranda felt a surge of grim satisfaction travel through her at the words.

“A protest which falls somewhat short in light of the fact that you are apparently accustomed to viewing Thomas as nothing more than an object, useful for  _ bargaining _ ,” she observed. 

The words, uttered in the quiet of the study, were cutting - biting,  _ satisfying _ .

“I’ve met him now!” Silver protested. “For fuck’s sake, you don’t think I still -”

“I find,” she answered, “that I do not much care what you think or say or believe - not after what you have told me. You have known Thomas by my count for all of a day. You knew James for a little under a year, and yet you still sold him and all he held dear, and do you know, Mr. Silver - I find that far too many men seem to think that I will willingly step back and allow them to do such things. I will not, and if you do not leave, you will be the first to find out!”

Silence reigned in the study for a moment, and then Silver sighed.

“Will you tell him I said goodbye, then?” he asked. “I’ve saved both their lives, now - doesn’t that earn me a last message, at least?”

He sounded - resigned, now, if a touch exasperated. As if he had expected nothing less, and nothing more all at the same time, and Miranda silently wondered what he had hoped for versus what he was now receiving.  

“It earns you my good opinion sufficient to leave this house intact,” she snapped. “It earns -”

“What the hell are you going to tell James?”

He cut her off, and she looked up at last.

“I am going to tell him exactly what you have told me,” she answered. “The truth of it, and if he then decides that you have earned his forgiveness, it will be his choice, but I will not see you manipulate your way back into his good graces before he has considered in full exactly what it is you have done. All of it, Mr. Silver - in detail, and without counting on shame to cloud his judgment, as you might have done, or do you deny doing that, too?”

“I -” Silver started - 

And Miranda would never know what he was about to say in his own defense, or toward his further condemnation, because it was at that moment that Abigail came pelting out of the passageway, and Miranda turned to her. 

“Abigail?” she asked.

Abigail gasped for breath, her tiny cheeks flushed red.

“Uncle - Thomas says come!” she said at last. “He says - he says - there is a big flag with a crest on it and it is red and there is a crown at the top and a cross at the bottom and I think Uncle Thomas is frightened!” 

Miranda looked at Silver and he at her. 

“Spain,” he breathed, and then they were running down the passageway, heading toward Thomas and the evidence of treason he had just uncovered.

**************************************************************

He came to in time to roll out of the way of a falling horse.

“Jesus!” He swore thickly, and tried to push his hair out of his face. “What the fuck -?” 

Flailing hooves beat the air near his head, and he swore once again, and rolled out of the way, coming to his feet in a movement he had nearly forgotten - 

And with good reason.

“Jesus bloody fucking Christ,” he groaned. “Damn it -” 

His knee, he thought, was going to take a great deal more mending before it would be up to this sort of shenanigans. Not, of course, that he had much choice - had he ever?

“Captain!” George Churchill’s voice reached him from atop his horse. “You are under my command as a member of Her Majesty’s Navy. Whatever Hennessey has told you -”

“You tried to have me killed!” James snapped. He lurched forward, and Churchill, against all odds, took a step back. “You tried to fucking have me ambushed like a rat in a damned alleyway, and now you’d like to plead your way out of it!” 

They were still on the lawn. The battle still raged behind them, and Sarah Churchill had been thrown from her horse, but for the moment, James had time only for the bastard that had taken Miranda from him - the bastard that thought he could rip away all that James had fought so fucking hard for the past few months, and the ten years before that, and what the hell was the point if he rolled over now like the damn dog Churchill clearly thought him to be? 

Churchill was reaching for a gun. With one motion, James stepped forward, and used the momentum of his failing knee pitching him toward the ground to grab the man’s arm at an angle he did not expect. He wrenched the weapon out of Churchill’s hand, and clubbed him with it - once, twice, and then again, for good measure, and -

“Captain!”

He turned. 

“Weren’t you trying to shoot each other a moment ago?” he asked irritably, and stared down the barrel of the gun that Sarah Churchill was pointing in his face.

*************************************************

“I think I’ve found the evidence you were searching for,” Thomas said faintly as they stared at the large Spanish flag and Jacobite symbols worked in cloth overtop of it. 

The room they stood in was too prosaic, he thought, to be the center of a conspiracy. The furnishings were too plain - floor was too unpolished - 

He could not picture his father setting foot in this room, but set foot he must have, because this - 

This would explain the past two days, and indeed, the past six months. Or the past ten years, depending on whose perspective he considered, and Thomas silently cursed Alfred Hamilton, and George Churchill, and the other poxy idiots who had decided that not only could they not be satisfied with their current monarch - no, they had to go and ruin the lives of others. This - this was why James had spent ten years of his life running and hiding and fighting the English government instead of at home with Thomas and Miranda. This was why Thomas, in that other world, had spent ten years a prisoner. This was why Miranda had died. 

She was right there in the room with him. That much, at least, he could be grateful for. She was alive, and safe, and there was no need to go and strangle Churchill, was there?

“Were they trying to be hung, drawn, and quartered?” Silver asked incredulously, and Miranda gave a short, sharp laugh.

“It’s not amusing,” Thomas snapped. “The man’s committing treason. Men have died!” 

“Men are dying,” Miranda said firmly. “And James will be among them if we do not move quickly. Thomas - gather the documents on that table. Abigail - I want you to accompany Uncle Thomas. You are to leave with him and not return here, do you understand? He will take you to your Mama.” 

The little girl nodded solemnly, and Thomas looked at her, alarmed. 

“Miranda - you can’t intend to go out there,” he said urgently. “You can hear what’s going on -” 

“And George may very well be in the middle of it but I highly doubt the Duchess will be,” she answered. “She is the person to whom I will need to speak. Mr. Silver -”

“You are going to keep my wife alive and unharmed, or I will make certain Admiral Hennessey finds out what you did to his son,” Thomas interjected. Silver’s eyes widened at the threat - or perhaps at Thomas’ tone as he uttered it. 

“I meant every word,” Thomas assured him, quiet and serious. He had, he realized - there was no bluff in his words. He could see the look on Miranda’s face, too - shock mixed with concern and even approval. Above all, though, there was frustration on her face.

“Thomas -” she began.

“You are many things, my love, but you are not a soldier, or a pirate,” Thomas interrupted firmly. “Take Mr. Silver with you, please. He knows his way around a fight, I’ve gathered - I won’t have you come to harm again.” 

They did not have time for the clash of wills that might otherwise have occurred. It was not often that he gave his wife orders - or she him, for that matter, but today - 

He was not a violent man. He was not a vengeful man, but Miranda stood in front of him by the grace of God and her own native cunning. Gunshots still echoed through the building, and his James was out on that lawn, and by God if he was hurt - if any of them came away from this injured, let alone dead -

“If you wish to earn any kind of forgiveness, Mr. Silver, you will do this for me - get me to the Duchess unharmed,” Miranda said at last. “Thomas - I will meet you at the gamekeeper’s lodge on the edge of the property. If you should see James -”

Thomas nodded.

“I’ll see to him,” he promised. “Time to end this.” 

***********************************************************

“Surrender!”

The man before him fell to his knees, sword dropped, and Hennessey allowed his own weapon to lower.

He was panting for breath. This fight had gone on far too long - and it was entirely too formless, too disorganized, too much of a damned  _ mess.  _

“Sir - Sir, I think we’re winning.” 

The words came from the right-hand side of his horse, and Hennessey looked down. His lieutenant stood, covered in dirt, but still alive.

“Lieutenant, if you are not certain whether we are winning or losing, we are losing,” Hennessey snapped. “Admiral Churchill’s forces appear to have lost their general. If there is no ranking officer leading them at present, I suggest - Lady Hamilton, what in the  _ hell _ do you think you are doing here?!” 

Miranda Hamilton had dirt smudged on her cheek. Her hair was coming undone from its careful arrangement, her clothing was, in all likelihood, beyond the skill of all but the most experienced laundresses - and there was fire in her eyes fit to light a torch with. 

“Sarah Churchill,” she snapped. “I need to know where her Grace has gone - and a horse.”

“Two horses,” came a voice from behind her, and she turned. Silver, Hennessey noticed, was behind her - coughing and stumbling a bit, but also alive. Miranda frowned.

“Two horses,” she amended, sounding almost disappointed at seeing the smaller man. “Quickly, Admiral - please.”

*************************************************************

“If you think that Thomas will refrain from stopping your brother-in-law’s designs because you have my life in your hands, you might as well revise your opinion of him right now,” James said, and Sarah Churchill simply cocked the gun. “I’m not -”

“Silence, Captain.” 

George Churchill’s voice came from behind him, and James cursed. What the hell had happened to him being able to club a man to death in a few blows? If he got out of this - when he got out of this - 

“You know,” a voice sounded from the direction of the woods, “you could ask me yourself. I’m certain it would benefit everyone to hear it straight from the source, so to speak.” 

He could not turn. Sarah’s gun was still pointed at him, although it wavered now between two targets, but James did not need to. He knew that voice - knew it as well as his own, as well as he knew the fore of a ship from aft. 

“Thomas,” he uttered, and his lover moved forward to stand beside him. 

“James,” he acknowledged, and James felt his heart plummet.  _ Shit.  _

_ **************************************************************** _

“Thomas - I don’t know what the  _ fuck _ you think you’re doing, but I want you to turn around and leave. Leave right now, or so help me -”

Sarah’s gun swung toward Thomas, and James swore. The duchess aimed her gun toward him once more, and Thomas took another step forward. James glared - really and truly glared at him, his attention quite removed from the Duchess, her gun, and, Thomas hoped, how much he must have been hurting, with the scrapes on his face and what looked to be a further injury to his knee, and honestly, Thomas was surprised his lover was still standing. It was what had brought him out of the forest to begin with - away from Abigail.

“You told me you’d sworn off martyrdom,” James snapped, and Thomas did his best to ignore the spike of terror that rose in him at his lover’s tone. “You’re goddamned determined to get yourself fucking killed, aren’t you?!”

James’ voice, Thomas thought, sounded strained - not from fear, but from pain, and the thought only made the anger burn hotter in his veins.

“Neither one of us is going to die today,” he answered. “I believe that falls within the terms of our agreement.” 

“You know goddamn well what I meant!” 

“Quiet!”

The words came from in front of them. Thomas turned - and was faced with the fact that there was a gun pointing right at his face - and at James’ face by extension. It was a wholly unpleasant feeling. 

“If you shoot me,” Thomas said almost conversationally, “there are a number of people who are going to be very, very cross with you. Do you know, Admiral Churchill, who it is that your sister-by-law has chosen to threaten?”

It was a rhetorical question. 

He did not like his family tree. It had been required, from his earliest days in the schoolroom, that he know the names of his forebears, and it had been his private joke with his siblings that he would, indeed, have rather preferred it if his ancestors had been a small pack of bears, rather than the dour, humorless men whose faces and names he had known almost before his own. 

His father, he recalled, had never found that joke amusing. Thomas’ rear still ached at the memory and Alfred, no doubt, would be rolling in his grave at the use to which Thomas was about to put his ancestry. Thomas, however, could not help but appreciate the irony of the damned lineage becoming useful now of all times.

“You are the Earl of Ashbourne,” George snapped. “There are a dozen like you, all -”

“All of them the heir to the position of Senior Peer of the Realm upon which hangs at least in part the fragile relationship we enjoy with Scotland?” Thomas asked pleasantly. “Tell me, George. How pleased do you think your esteemed patron will be with you when you, an Englishman and a Jacobite, shoot a Scotsman and demonstrate that by extension, neither you or your Pretender king put any store by the value of the Scots nobility to your cause? At the very least, I would imagine James Stuart will disavow all obligation to you and you’ll be left with a stack of debts and no restored monarchy to make it all worth your while.”

Sarah, Thomas could see, knew the truth of his words. It had been a bluff - a good one, but not good enough, and now it was more than time for this foolishness to end.

“Put the gun down,” he invited. “Stop threatening Captain McGraw, and let us discuss what it is you are going to do to make up for the annoyance you have put me through these past two days.” And, he thought, the loss of life currently happening on the front lawn, but he did not bring it up - it was all too likely to result in either himself or James getting shot, and given James’ confession the night Alfred had died and given that Abigail was waiting just beyond the trees, he had absolutely no desire for that to occur. 

_ “Run to the lodge,” he’d told the little girl. “Your mama should be waiting there. Please -” _

_ “Not leaving,” Abigail had insisted, and Thomas had not had time to argue, because James was being held at gunpoint, and the sight had filled him with fear, choking him and making it hard to think.  _

_ “Stay here then,” he had told her. “Do not move - no matter what you see or hear, you must not run into the forest or cry out, do you understand?”  _

She had nodded, and Thomas had turned and strode out to have a word with the Churchills, and now here they stood, and Sarah did not seem to be putting the gun down.

“Lady Churchill,” he said, attempting to sound exasperated and not terrified, “please. There is nothing to be gained -”

“Except my husband’s freedom,” she answered. The gun turned - 

Afterward, Thomas was never quite sure which had come first - the gunshot, or James’ cry of terror.

“Thomas -!” he cried, and then -

When they got to Nassau, Thomas thought, he was going to have a very strict rule about people shooting at him. Specifically, if it never happened again, he would be a very happy man. James, too, should stop being shot at - it could not be any better for his lover than it was for him. Speaking of James -

Thomas rolled over from his position on the ground. James lay atop of him, and - dear God on high, was James breathing? Was he -?

James’ arms tensed on either side of him and he scrambled to get off, and Thomas felt his heart start again. 

“Thank God,” he murmured. He stood slowly, eyes on James rather than the scene before them, and offered his lover a hand to help him rise.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and saw James wince. 

“I think so,” he answered. He sat up - and then cried out, and Thomas felt his heart sink.

“James?” he asked, and felt James’ hand tighten around his own. 

“I’m fine,” James choked out. He swore, and then his hands went to his injured knee. “I’m fine,” he repeated, and attempted to rise once more.

“James - for once in your stubborn life, stay down when you are injured,” Miranda’s voice said, and Thomas turned.

His wife stood before him, rumpled but alive, and behind her stood two horses. Admiral Hennessey sat atop one of them, his attention given, it seemed, to Sarah and George Churchill. Thomas could not see either noble - the bulk of the horses obscured his vision and, he noted, neatly shielded both himself and James from being seen or shot at.

“Miranda,” Thomas said, relieved. “How have you -?”

A groan issued from behind the horses, and Thomas looked to his wife. 

“What the hell happened?” James asked, speaking for them both.

“I did,” came Silver’s voice. He stood to the side, and Thomas did not quite understand the look on his face - regret, and satisfaction, and fear all rolled into one, perhaps. 

“Admiral -” Thomas started. 

“Tell me they’re not dead,” James said. “I can’t -”

“No one is dead,” Miranda assured. “I think-”

She swallowed hard.

“I think,” she said, “that we may all walk away from this after all.”

“I very much doubt,” said Sarah Churchill’s voice, “that my brother-in-law will be walking anywhere any time soon.”

James still could not rise. Thomas, however, could not help the morbid curiosity that caused him to walk toward the horses - to peer around one of them, to see -

“Oh,” he said, and Miranda grimaced.

“She may be right,” Silver said quietly. He did not sound particularly regretful. “Put the gun down, Lady Churchill. Don’t you want to see me hanged for attempting to murder a noble?” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we are still heading for a happy ending for everyone. I have no intention of seeing anyone dead by the end of this, I swear, so before you all murder me, please keep in mind that I stand by my tags.


End file.
